2 New Poem

Glass for Trees

You make your life from spires,
quixotic rush of research-funded
evening on Quays terminal,
drip-drab of international docks,
spouting works of empire:
stuck taps in plane hangars.

I make my life from dirt roads,
backwashing stagnation, kept as
amber glass in summer’s sweat,
lifelines remote for three hours dark
a dying stillness but for chirp of robin:
last outposts left unconquered.

But passing once, winding stream,

as we do, two stones smoothing,

each other against.

Home Team

Bleachers run like steel wire
under concrete,
reflecting a street flashlight
from when I was just fourteen;
you cheer like the home team,
had just one at grand state,
and still in tire squeal
of your mom’s Chevrolet.

When you speak you pass me,
rabbit running away,
there isn’t a word now that
I could really say,
in a world of backwards thinking
sky goes darker than stars
can swallow, even standing
in high school halogen.