an inkstorm summoned under live oak we dreamed. daniel boonelight
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forgiveness
forgiveness
forgiveness
in me
partmeets 3-28-16
to climb into the recesses of memory
where i store your sanguine soul-saving face
perfect in its listening moon eyes
and flush from earnestfelt loving
i can encapsulate every thrilling forgettal
of time and worry unto the bounty
of simply being alive and name it you
how could i let any rust of blame
for anything cancer the willing mind
when there have been cornucopias
of redemption splendored with your
fair countenance upon my daily doings?
there is so much pink and supple
to be pressed between a couple
thousand heartbeats (which is to say that)
sometimes it's only space between
in a day that paves my blinking way
to our endlessly enchanted partmeets
nothing and everything 12-19-16
there's nothing, nothing, nothing
we could invent
that would replace
the type of essence passed
in sharing actual space
well it's taken so long
and the smoke signals they try
and we want and we grow
meantime attempting up top
what is down below
and yet as real and as wordless
as eyes looking in eyes
from the time when first that was
it was everything, everything, everything
alternatives to the numbing things 6-30-16
there are really good alternatives
to the numbing things, there are
ways of reappearing not disappearing
ride a bicycle to main street with a sunflower
tucked in the basket, and buy the ingredients
to make a strawberry rhubarb pie from scratch
the very same way your great grandmother
did for all seven of them before it was time
to wash the diapers while humming a tune;
or call up an old friend whose phone used
to connect to you across lines and poles
into the deep recesses of night while you
two spoke dreams and secrets aware of the moon
and this time ask to meet them by the river
so that you can give them a mix you made
and so y'all can catch up over glazed croissants
and you can take a half-blurry photo
of the two of you laughing while recalling
old lovers but the picture will take on meaning
or you can sit at that old piano for the first
time in who knows how long and trace out
whatever shapes need to be made in order
to sound the complications of what little
shadows of understanding are left tucked
inside the cracks and corners of people's
busy hammerings of wind-up motion about
and sing a song so blue for each and every doubt
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