to chopin

you stepped in to the blue surface
and sank, sank, sank
to the tiny rocks
beneath -

some would call it your death.
we could hear you
calling out from
the waves;

you were a bird, you said,
a bird that could swim -
an anhinga,
free -

and free was something
you had never felt
before, save that
time

we rode in the back of
your brother's truck,
backs pressed
against

cold metal, and eyes pressed hard
against mighty hercules
and his twelve
labors:

you were always my labor,
of dual mind and
chambered
heart,

presenting me with a fight:
whether or not to
be the sand,
frail

and indistinguishable,
or to be the ocean,
moving with every
placid thought.

hirundo rustica (edit)

it was sad to see them go.

their orange breasts peaked in the early morning hours
when they'd dive bomb passers with their eager chit-chit chit-chit-chit;
signaling warning signs that were mostly signs of defeat,
but we'd recognize their bravery anyway:

(they remind me of you.
the one so eloquent in action that it'd be hard to see
from an outside perspective that the bravery inside you was the
reaction of earlier interactions gone astray.
you're so polite, baby, because they made you that way - )

by early june they'd be gone.
the nest, though empty, resonates with their call,
silence and distraction walking with me,
somewhere far off, remembering where they
would return.

a tribute to best friends, vrs. 1 (edit)

of accountability:
that time you sat, cross-eyed, limber,
with a dark ale and a premium roast in either hand,
singing the blues with your electric guitar
thumbing the melody with your ring finger
and forming the chords with your big toe

smiling at me, and back again to yourself,
and sometimes at your cup of coffee,
which narcissistically said:
"caution,
handle with care.
i'm hot"

i knew what was going through your head while
you spent hours upon hours bowed in meditation.
i could hear you, whispering
silently as the golden rays rose above your head,
with praise, praise, praise
to whatever at the time you deemed immortal --

sometimes you looked like the omniscient
gradient pattern on your ceiling,
sun touching the textured whites.
maybe sometimes like joplin, frizzed hair wet
with the shining of the sunset, or

maybe it was bessie, one arm hanging out of a window,
letting the heat engulf her with particles of sweat,
enjoying the smell of blooming may apples
for the very last time;

so close to death, and yet so close to
the beauty of life that it would
be impossible
to think
of
anything
else