dear Bonnie / dear Megan

dear Megan, slept in a city. dear Megan,
woke to one thin line of sunlight where fog
carried San Francisco across the bay
where the bridge carries no one this weekend,
long labor day, hurray. now kusodama petals
pinch Cairo close to Norfolk, center marked
in mesquite pods, last season lavender stalks,
and flour jar’s four-by glass magnifies all latitudes
and longings to: home. here succulents
bouquet their sea greens and saint pinks
in the done leaves under clotheslines.
black dog’s hair draws kitchen’s white tile
in detail like bone in the open book
of ancient anatomies. coffee’s ice
beads the plastic, diagrams
my desk in Venn of purse and sip.

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dear Bonnie I think I live only in cities
when I sleep boulevards spill from fingers
brain tendrils round tall buildings and crowd
hum, dear Bonnie, my heart holds a city in its
five pounds of meat fleshing out into congested
freeway warehoused periphery of sinew and throb
dear Bonnie I am all blood and guts today no sweetness
no flowering of plant nor soft shade from shadow
and Cairo is far and not and Damascus is far and not
and we are all bones and tissue and breaking
some farther than others some faster than others
some valued more than others in the global market
and today home is a holiday where we celebrate labor
by grilling meat on the back patio to share with neighbours
dear Bonnie I’m tired dear Bonnie I’m sorry

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today’s Times writes Syria by Wilfrid Owen.
G-20 tongue makes yes or no its language of attack,
what poets said was arrested and is missing, has remained
in prison throughout the war, was kidnapped and killed.
I keep reading this twentieth century
terror of the air connection of lungs
levels of human exposure breath’s measure
anti-war anti-Assad anti-intervention anti-elegy.
open epistolary. drop line, dear, drop
hearsay hopesay daresay.

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Thinking this morning (finally free from sniffles
and fever) about you and also about trees and
freedom and bodies (all these incantations)
and this century/war unending and pockets that light
up on maps of our world and lungs and spores
fire-y alive and not well waiting for the line to drop
the hand to sizzle the saline injection the tremors
the tapwater to ignite and oh I am still feverish and
oh I am still light I miss you—-the root-stink
the cloud-wobble the gentle sigh that corrects us

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and wrecks us. dear Megan, this week wrought up love
couldn’t sleep beside me for deep dark or still
or acorn’s bang on old tile or trucks wheezing four ways
to stop at our street break. and rock’s work brought big green
and softly sun colors to finger’s tips touch lips tickle
and giggle, my arms-full-of boy breathing his nasturtiums.
some families rise out of soil’s time till very crisp
and pale, clean and fine. mine is flung itself to Modoc
with a rifle and a camp stove. mine is running
to uncatch the water float, hold its buoyed baby,
feed it all. these pretty horses but beautiful horses.

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wreckage-in-wait here, Bonnie, last exhalation
of leaf-burst branch-rustle first crispness of fall
all this in store for love just longing a slip
between tissues a transfer of cells an inevitable sigh
debt-ceiling and sick bodies and injection mines
this stop and stop and stop and can’t or won’t give
scrim and skirmish deep dreaming paths through
and I haven’t even met your boy his warm breath scents
your words lingering sweetness a counter to
or perhaps stitching us together our little pieces
torn and threadbare gathered in breath and baby fist