Now

Woman
unpossessed
is the river
swept
with
Current

To my seventh grade self

Little girl
I do not possess you
We are made of matching molecules
but my reverie is no more relevant
than your flimsy photograph.
I may as well be floating,
as we always are.
I do not possess you.
And yet,
our small lives
will forever
belong
to one another.

On the train

It is city transit.
River, rather.

The woman in the blue dress is actually wearing slacks and a blouse; shoulder-slung banjo glimpses as she strolls past high school snugglers and a mama with a bike.
Five red-nosed circus clowns wade the stream; Meryl Streep, and Ghandi,
while an elderly gentleman gives birth to a banana split through his belly-button, a puppy dives into a one armed handstand by the handicapped seats, and a small stroller child silently chokes to death on a red lozenge.

No one in the water sees.
Wide-eyed helping hands 
too full of the wonder
in our telephones.

The Revolution, or Monday Night Lovers

We will be

Monday night lovers.

To leave space

for the promises you want to make

to someone else

someday.

Fall into my arms

with your week,

and your weak,

and your woe.

And I will love you well.

For a moment,

if that is all you have.

Your people;

they will cry,

harlot!

wanton!

no!

But my people; 

they hear me.

Hear us.

Cheer for love.

No matter that it changes,

that it ends,

that it is reborn again in the spring

as the sun begins to shine.

In Chicago,

where the seasons change,

we know these rhythms.

Here, 

where we embrace this Revolution,

I am home in who I am.