are dreams subconscious reflections
of a true self we hide within?
of the inside of the outside
slashing through the miens of bystanders
violently, and revealing their beating
capillaries that twist and tighten
and try to distract from the fragility
the exposition
so that we will fill our minds with notions that these
truth hoods are falsities
and fabricated under the soft
stretch of our eyelids
they will be smooth to the touch
and open with ready
with knowledge belief

i wish you were as in my dreams

it has become as easy
as the cracking sidewalk in the stare of my eyes
as i walk to school
with you
and the jumping up the stairways two at a time
laughing when i bump into the wall
because now our hugs
are expected and mean little to me
and mean little to you
(i still imagine my disaster
and that extra tug tighter, but more because
i want to be saved, because i want a hero)
still for now i will no longer take the f train
to the r train to the b or the q
and prolong my journey home for a matter
of minutes
because i am secure in our friendship
and the balance of our intimacy
does not lie in the crack between the closing doors
nor can it be broken by the trains delay
as the wheels jolt me forward
and you far behind

tear me apart with your eyes

and the way you pause before

you say goodbye

as if you could fill those few seconds

with so many words

but you hesitate

tell me those words

it has become so bad

that i have a physical reaction

when i see you

the involuntary influx of shudder air and the adrenaline comes

rushing in making

me question how it is that

my body knows what my mind will not admit

and my lips are afraid of

the warmth pulls out
the i-don't-knows
and ice cream woes
behind the tips of your eyelashes that curl up
with your older sisters mascara
that we used to dabble in when we were kids
and now we dab on ferociously and we are still kids
the car will honk outside
and you'll yank me from the mirror
grab my coat
grab my coat
you'll yell up the stairs as you take them two at a time
and i am amazed how you do not trip
i'll grab it and hustle down right
behind you
you'll call shotgun
and i'll get the backseat which smells slightly
musty and smoky and altogether undesirable
but it will be fine because i'll tell peter
to roll down the windows
and i'll stick out my
head because i don't care if my hair gets mussed up
as long as i feel
alive

it was the first time
i have ever been checked out that
obviously
by a stranger

a silent wordless scope
from the guy in the passenger seat
as i waited for the bus
and looked left
and looked left
though i knew it had just rounded the corner
and pushed down my skirt
and peeked through the strands
of my hair
where his eyes were still looking
unabashed
and though they moved
while i constantly checked,
as the car pulled off
they lingered--
i was worth an entire head turn.

how scintillating

its amazing how
not caring
can make everything
that much better
and easier to fit
inside the confines
of a once-agitated mind
where there now lies
loose outlines

poring over ourselves at the
turn of midnight
our fingers brush our sleep exhilarated words
as they form a fragile strip of sound between us through the
air of our telephones
and the secrets that
pass through the wires over the highways
we do not have to travel
to speak

the night pulls out words we have been afraid to say
out loud and to ourselves (that we have buried)
and pushes them into air shaky and wobbly (but in the cold
existence of the buzz and the soft
shoulder of facial anonymity they will breathe fine)
they will pick themselves up
and dust off the worry
in these late conversations
i never want to end

An Ode to the Apple Tree That I Planted With My Hands And Not My Computer