In Mishawaka, Irish Traveler and Child

you saw the mother's
fist, the daughter's pink
plaid dress, pigtails

and white tennis shoes.
you learned about touch
and beautiful names:

Madelyne and Martha.

Unavoidable love poems


is it called a love poem
if the moon sleeps through it?

what accounts for the snow
and how we unfold into our folded
unfoldedness

do we attach to a particular star
and fling ourselves onto the top of a tree

at what point do we become certain,
and how do we know every poem isn't
a love poem, mushy or otherwise

doesn't the heart have to rise like bread
long after our ghosts have tucked the angels in

should we dip each other in chocolate,
to gobble away the loneliness:

and isn't that called hunger?

Color filters in the form of Zen

In this room,
nothing disturbs the spiders:
their webs stay beautiful,
only the poems release color.

I close my eyes,
not to be kissed or touched,
but to lean toward silence
and more complete knowing.

I've opened the door
to the flowers.