dig me shallow

---

mourn me with shallow roses
do not dig so deep
that the memory of me cannot be heard
above the Boston gusts
that rush through skyscrapers and ancient
courthouses with speeches
inscribed like the poetry I tried to tell you
would keep you
when I was gone. bury me
not so far to
forget the wind chimes of a thousand perfect
vowels and
adjectives erased for the perfect word
to describe my happiness
the first time you moved me into sadness
so much it hurt
so deep it cut to reveal my heart
no longer encumbered
by the broken seal it once had felt

---

Needing

---

i shan't
i can't
i won't

i want

---

Etch and Sketch

----

In writing, build the scaffolding
but once it leads you where to go
tear it down.

There is nothing but autobiography
what stories do we tell but our own?

he was a Megabus lifer, she could tell;
he wore baggy pants 
that could be stripped off easily
if it got too hot
and pulled on quickly if it
ever cooled
he had a subway six-inch
that once was
a footlong; Mountain Dew and
fogged glasses
and one of those way-too-expensive
pillows attached
like melted skin to his neck
the tattoo
of the well-traveled.

she didn't think too much of him
who thinks on a bus
of anyone other than them?
but then his was
the only empty seat left and
he moved, apologetically, but spoke:
"Yeah, I still don't know how
to show people who I really am?"
she stammered -- what an odd thing
to say to a complete stranger -- but ahh
when she looked closer
she saw the white Apple earphones
crisis averted, and he
noticed her, and he
mouthed an
apology.

outside
a car sped past them
its lights blaring doom
to the Honda
ahead of
them

eventually, she
got the story out of him:
he was once in love
and though that was long gone
he still rode buses
to remind himself

their relationship
was an etch and sketch
of overnight bus routes
creating and erasing
the distance between them
in sleepless East Coast strokes.