she hid him beneath her bed


if i could only write one good
it would be about when we went
and the humidity of
the middle part
of alabama

how it did fog up
my glasses in
just seconds

it would be about how i felt like
a stowaway
the whole time i knew you
a small puppy hidden under
your bed
and when we got to golf shores
i felt the foreboding of
being set free
by your sullen parents

in this, the best of my poems
i would remember and in detail
explain the last moment we
in person
but only the beach remains
sunbleached afternoon
walking barefoot and
the new freckles
i would fall between

and i would end the poem
very poignantly
and much before i spent a week
at my grandmother’s
in ocala
far from home
vomiting out religiously
all the sickness i had



here he sits reading
the cliff notes in a
history book
listening to far out

the main character
in a book he’s
currently working on

is he the writer?
is he the protagonist?
is he both?

every day he wakes
with old eyes and
a young heart
and the pages fill
and disappear

all with the same
the same drivel
different titles

he finds familiar
dialogue in his stories
he sees his own words
in the history book

he thinks “man,
i must be the
only one alive
out here”

love lost


i would admire your fresh face
in the grass in your back yard
and how you could make something
out of nothing
climbing a big oak tree
that they had to cut down,
last summer
got too big for its own good

and what ended up lasting
or at least it seems to me
are the dimples on your face
creases left from the smiles
from last summer
losing balance
at least 20 feet high
too good to be true