nov 6.

if you knew me town, you would know I would never steal, I would only give if I could (the coffee tasting like it
has liquor in it
or maybe steely rain
maybe curls dripping from
my heat struck skull
into my ears
making the whole
environment central to
the scrape of chairs
against tile floor
the cling and clank of
plates and trays the
mull of voices
the air outside
is as confused as
me, ripe with wetness,
crying out sporadically
with warm and harmless
rain) if you knew me town, you would know I am someone who goes home and sobs for missing their father, and falls asleep wearing his coat, wants to go home and sleep on my his grave, and wants to curl up on the banks of the Penobscot to find him (scatter my ashes in
both rivers

now the coffee
tastes like Pacific
coast craft shop

our time with each other
is so fleeting
the voice on the radio:
“life is short, art is

to treat all life as
precious: the winged
insect clinging to my
the boys on each
side of me
I watch their shoes,
purple backpacks, beards,
body language, eating, trying
not to look or be looked

“I can’t call them
kids, they’ve already
told me that, but
I say ‘you’re a kid
to me, I’m old.’”
Maine woman, you
are so young.
we are so young

this is what I strive
for: a clear high, the
scene swaying me
separate and
distinct and connected
to everything.

the dream where a
woman held a red
flashing bike light in
her hand and I
said, “oh that’s mine, you
found it,” then
I said, “no, ‘it’s
not mine, but it looks
just alike, it must
be my soul mate’s.”
I ask my father to
please come into my
dreams and
only remember this
dream of a red
light that could be
a symbol of my soul mate) town, if you knew me you would know I am the one who picks up a dew wet stone from my running, to give to the one who talks me to sleep at night, talks strong and cheerful to keep me from breaking, talks about tv shows as if nothing is wrong with me. town, I am the one who kisses the stone and dips it in the holy river looking out across to a camouflaged green canoe, to the bare wick trees, to the bird talk woods, all contained by the echo of highways, come closer by the humid warmth in the air. (a boy gives a girl an ice cream that looks like a red blossom).