I went to a very fabulous wedding tonight.
There were these great arrangements of flowering tree branches on each table with lanterns hanging from them.
It was on the roof of a film studio in Brooklyn. It was August hot and humid, but an amazing breeze washed over the roof during the ceremony. Dark clouds rolled in and by the time I was catching a car to come home it had cooled off greatly.
It makes me want to fall in love. Which is terribly cliched.
This is a poem about death. When it comes, like love, unexpected but right around a corner.
Or the next.
Narrow Cell 5/2
And I rap my knuckles against the smooth spot one more time.
And I feel the groove, depression, spoon-like and cupping.
And I notice the trace of moisture around the seams of everything.
It's like a waiting, it feels like there is nothing to wait for.
It's the calm press of soil, overhead, under, around - peace-filled, moving.
It's low-pressure days where you float on your feet, always.
Some people think of angels, flies, the coming Jesus.
Some manage a throw, vaulting, slate slapping.
Some do, but, it's just slipping between parked cars into a busy street.
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