The Loop

I wake in the middle of the night, 

dodging Monday Night Football updates like 

Fox News, tear gas and bullets en route to the Ferguson verdict.

In the distance, I hear a train leaving Penn Station

and I resolve to let my anger travel north on the Acela Express.

But as the train and I toot our horns and 

regurgitate smoke, I realize my ire never truly leaves.

3 AM

We meet again

and you are the lullaby I remember

Whisk me away

upon a shooting star

to where my inner child hibernates

in the heaving hirsute bosom of Ursa Major

Nature

Saturday morning

And my lover is a forest floor:

Hair intertwined with sheets wet from wind wafting

rain through open windows.

I lie naked as countryside hills:

Soft drops stick and glisten over my curvy chest and 

stomach like morning dew or manifested sin.

Love-40

A boy lies in his yard

hitting a tennis ball with a racquet

five minutes before the sun forsook his world 

and took with it sixty-one degrees

Would that the racket never stop

That the ball would never drop

Let not the round greenness of summer 

be banished like the Apple in Eden