You are growing into my life like ivy,
Slow-covering my walls with your dark tangle:
I can smell the dust settle on your leaves
As you crumble my mortar and stone,
As time etches you into me.

You are hanging from my thoughts, an endless vine
Growing deep shades of green under cool winter suns,
Then flashing shiny lime-colored leaves into warmer dreams;
Insinuate your tiny fingers into my every fissure,
Grow thick and close to me, blanket my harsh facade
With your ancient mask: I will carry you.

 

Punctuation
My sons and I slide around a question mark,
leap off its curve.
Its current tows us under.
Our rumps punctuate the rapids,
dot each i.

The boys are bounced off stones,
carry on the busy, insect life of punctuation
in the river,
float on it like commas.

The rushes won’t stop fondling.
We tire of their fuck, fuck against our thighs,
of the small, stubborn egos of stones,
old men’s stubby pricks
poking out.

The river ripples and slopes like an open zipper.
We jerk our hands back
out of a mossy dark.
Even the boys grow timid.

Two final question marks
crouching closer together —
they drift away.
I can’t draw them back. I watch helpless as a word placed
just before them.