laundry

i spin this line - weave this
string, used to pin my words -
like soaked linens to dry.
and the words, as they hang
become lighter from the sun
or
battered
by the wind.
you collect them,
unpin them from the twine,
and choose to fold them
or wash them again yourself.
but since you do this
in silence
the line sways empty,
and emptier still;
i don't stop spinning it.


wednesday

and so,
another glass of wine
or another mile away
your hands clench,
so i know where you think it's going.

slow trains
thunder even more slowly in Indian summer,
even more slowly in the heat.


this heat is different
dry, not thick or musky
like it was in your cold bedroom
walls painted like crepe paper.

it was warm in that room too,
the air smelled the same
but felt different as i pulled it inside me,
dense, peppery dew.

tonight, or late afternoon,
it could smell like november.
if i closed my eyes
i could still see highway twenty nine


but i don't

because one time, i think you told me,
asleep in your twin bed
by the broken heater
which sparked- your arm covering my head

that no one else would ever
love me like you did.
i think of those words, wild and sweet,
now
and understand in a way
so bittersweetly profound.

i hope the grapes keep turning,
but for reasons other than they sound
early ripening to create a coppery berry liquid,


if someone else "loves" me like you did
i promise
it won't be about wine and miles
it will be about trains and heat.