You Tried Being Nothing

A minefield replaced the lawn again.
I told the kids not to play dead.

You told me to learn snow.
I salted your lips before drinking a kiss.

The lawn leaped into a pile of pine needles.
The kids cleaved the wind running.

You told me to blanket the yellow sailboats.
I printed your eyes shut with ellipses.

The lawn knelt in prayer reciting psalms.
The kids recited a failed fable left out of the final draft.

You told me to dance standing still.
I built a shelter to protect us from the sun not the night.

Wind Scrawls

The wind carries other people’s songs
to our translucent ears.

Lori took the bluegrass out the wind.
Paul snatched the political folk music.

Spoken word merely fogs the wind
when it is asleep.

Neither Lori nor Paul heard the wind
whisper the key to personal power.

Though they did hear angel mumbles
that seemed to mean something.

Lightning dismembers the wind
momentarily—until it recomposes itself.

But you said I could only touch you
from the direction of the wind.

It was south-south-east at the moment
but at only three miles an hour.

I feared you would interpret it
only as a breeze.

Splitting hairs? You were
quite particular that Wednesday.

In a mood not to be trifled with.
You carried a note pad for taking names.

You had yet to call me Honey
or Sweetie or some other pet name.

I saw your shadow flicker
and snap straight like a flag.

From the direction of the solar wind
I approached you.