Tag Archives: daydream


The filter is on
and love is squirming
trying to say
what it feels
like it needs to say
but I am the gatekeeper
who decides
how much
should be revealed
and I have one finger
on the trigger
one foot on the gas
another finger
over the barrel
and one heel
about to catch fire
from all this friction
all this dragging
all this restraint
that is supposed
to save me
from embarrassment
and the sudden
doe-eyed expression
on my face
that contains
every truth I can
never say.





Painting by Vilhelm Hammershoi, public domain


I think of you
wandering alone
through the dense
clusters of bluebells
and wood poppies
to the place where
wildness takes over
and replaces your worry
with calm—
and you opened
that door for me once
and led me into
your private sanctuary
where everything
was in bloom
and seemed perfectly
and without taint
and I felt the excitement
of a tourist
getting a glimpse
of paradise so pure
my temporary presence
must have seemed to you
a small contamination.






Some songs
require silence
after you hear them
on the radio
because the taste
they leave
in your mouth
is so sweet
nothing that follows
could arouse in you
an equal bliss
except to see
that face you love—
the one conjured
by that song—
or to somehow
hear the music
of his voice again
something holy
into your ear.






Painting by Pablo Picasso, “Three Musicians”


How dramatic
love insists on being—
as if its source
were as uncommon
as a wildflower
into the warm air
of a Midwestern
February afternoon—
but it happens
all the time
and is as common
as the dandelions
that begin their long
stretch in April—
then August comes
bringing proof
that even the most
exotic and precious
blooms require
a kind of care
we are unable to give
when we find ourselves
waist high in weeds
we were certain
would never take root.












I float into the night
how you will feel
when there is nothing
between us
but warm water
and skin so lonely
we will need
to cover each other
with tenderness
to help ease
the exit wound
that will follow us home
after we pick up
our blankets
from the forest floor
and kiss goodbye.







“Sun Shield” Andrew Wyeth, Watercolor 1982

Winter Daydream

My mind
likes to wander
into your territory
and make believe
it’s me in her place
holding your hand
on the beach
or laying next to you
in the night
listening to the
mottled owl screech
its warning
not to get too close—
so I keep my distance
even though
I can remember
your earthy smell
and the way
you tasted my skin—
and I pretend you aren’t
in another country—
and that if
you had a choice
you’d be next to me,
here, in mine.





“Danae” by Gustav Klimt, 1907


No poem
could convey
what happened
to my body
when I saw yours
for the first time
a single layer
of pretense
or inhibition—
just your eyes
looking into mine
with a kind of hope
that whatever
happened next
would be
the first time—
and not the last.






Photograph by Ansel Adams, 1932, “Rose and Driftwood”