Bamboo Shoots

Before three days of rain,

your green bullet faces

barely poked through

sun-baked clay.

 

In the loam, below

late afternoon, I admire

ecstatic upturned palms

of radish sprouts

 

awaiting their Rapture.

Then I notice you,

now standing taller

than my head.

 

You are hollow

sentinels, black and lithe

as newborn crickets

chirping warnings

 

below my bedroom

window. This is a space

for which I am grateful

you have decided

 

to defend with your

eager lives, spear-straight,

into the slippery

panting night.

You Slid Out One Night in the Cold (No Note)

You leave so curiously;

I panic-pedal my bike

until dawn searching

this drunken town

for your scent,

your sarcastic chuckle

and pathetic beard.

 

My list of reasons for you

leaving if you had left

an itemized list:

the fiery car crash;

my shattered arm;

your jealousy;

and survivor’s guilt;

gone violent, wrong.

 

You’re long gone as am I.

To Texas or Iowa

because you always

liked the squenching

confines of leather.

To think I once believed

in us, how wildly I surrendered

and how, after ten solid years,

the heart yearns to return.