our ocean crossing

transplanting kale and broccoli
how we bury the brassica starts
up to the crotch
after tossing handfuls
of compost into inverse mulch nests

_______

trifecta convergence in dancing rabbit parking lot:
trish rolls up in ruthie
with a box of bees and
copies of zines
steps out for a hug as joe arrives
in maroon truck
while i pedal clyde to bike rack

_______

bike ride as warm up
i run to train bridge and back
exceeding original route
by six minutes
(which feel like victory)
_______

post-run pond swim
i glide in and
em and i cut across water
from beach to dock and back again
and i in my english accent announce our
ocean-crossing
atlantic, specifically

_______

post dinner knuckle tatt game
smell of sharpie on our hands
tatts include but are not limited to:
sick foxx
late dngr
true nose
_______

i want to be just like you
when i grow up she says
from the drivers seat on
the highway not far from
the canyon where cell service drops
_______

a heron tyler calls out
from the drivers seat
to us in truck back
who all glance west
to follow his discovering/gaze
_______
wet-assed we howl
at lightning
scraggles in north sky
while huddling
in truckbed
moving through the start
of a storm
rain wetting our hair
our clothes
our faces
_______

jar of dried pears open
on butcher block
how we turn out whitehouse lights and
hangout in slow-strobe
glimpses of each other
and the kitchen
momentarily illuminated
_______
dead things:
squashed small snake on d.r. drive
frog/toad pressed into gravel
on underpass road

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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