October 4, 2018
He wrote to you with firecracker chalk
on the blackboard background
from a free-standing landing pad
held together by choir claps
over butter cups spraying
out the mouths of doves.
Getting to his point
would require starting over
at the outer loop
of your ripple effect
swinging monkey bar style
arm over arm
parallel to parallel
minding the gaps.
Sometimes
it takes a deeper breath
to hover on holy
against the current.
He wasn’t falling out of love with you.
He was falling out of ways to tell you.
Photo by @b.a.vansise who pulled this poem from a 2008 anthology on @writebloodypublishing (The Last American Valentine) to feature in his project photographing American poets. He mentioned something about the Smithsonian, but I steer clear of expectations for such things. Was a great experience working with him. Also, my mom would shit her pants….