Three poems

Country Club Garage, 1984

Shining the light into
the trunk of his blue
Datsun, he tells me
they don’t make em’
like this anymore.
He leans in, dives into
an ocean of tools, his
aluminum light a beacon
for the way things were
in July of 62’. Its whiteness
is holy, a halo to take
shelter under.
He doesn’t remember
what he was looking for,
and in the coolness of the
dark I can’t imagine what
is worth discovery in his
light. Its beams cascade
over the wet grass, revealing
little spectrums of color
that we follow home.

Ballou Park, 1976

The sun cascades a shadow
over the spiny veins of a
maple leaf. Pouring out
ultraviolet, it vaporizes
rain left over from Sunday.
Dandelions form lines over
the roots, cover up the
crumbling bark in blankets
of yellow. My toes disappear
into the sea of moss rushing
against the trunk. A canopy
of green protects me from
the sun’s fiery stare as I lie
back on the violets; their
petals palms to rest my
head in.

You Rest in Daffodils

Last night I dreamt
of a spring thaw
& your daffodils
there under the lilac
tree. You sat
in their rows
palms up as if
holding back
the sun. Emerald eyes
recognize me
& words drop
from your mouth
like embers.