How sweet it is to be here with you

inside the peach, inside the plum, inside

the pleasant tree.

How gorgeous you are in that poetry hammock -

​

I was tilled into a rich sillion.

Rocking and swaying side by side, I look

up and make plans with the clouds to bring

me shade before I go

down to the under, where I find

my sympathy for the devil, hidden.

​

Hidden in my favorite pocket, nearest my heart,

braided in the roots, the sickle-celled everything.

In the pit, slathered in the dripping juices, visceral,

the sun beats down. The wind won't save 

me, at least not this time.

Although maybe its rays will shed some light.

​

Try as I might, I will avoid all shade

instead I will run my hands over the grass blades.

​

Hey! Be proud of yourself,

said by the young man on a phone

in the distance,

hung up on his friend's insecurity,

hanging up from playing that role.

Pull yourself up from the bootstraps, kid.

You're a star!

​

You aren't too difficult to love.

Despite its best efforts, the world keeps turning

and you'll be okay.

Root for yourself.

I know this. The sun rises,

but does the sun itself know why it sets?

​

The ocean above stares at me 

and I wish you were as honest as you convince yourself

you are.

​

If I could say 

I would,

that we should love and be good.

But the older I get,

I can't, so I'll say

Love, be good.

​

​

​