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….