Cherry’s tree

Cherry’s gapped grin, familiarly sweet and sinister, hangs over me when I sleep like a constellation poxing the sky. There is a force of nature in the early morning that allows dew to cling to the grass, like maybe how I used to cling to Cherry’s laughter. Cherry and me are built the same (strong arms and shaky knees) but now Cherry’s only rotting fruit and I’m his resilient seed.

On “Kind of Blue”

It’s cobalt and

cornflower reflections on the ripples

of the evening bath you’re running

in the robin’s egg bathroom of my childhood home—


Because that’s where it happened,

didn’t it? The big bang.

When moons and millennia and you and I

blazed endlessly outward in a blur of blue.


It’s the veiny hands of the people we love and

it fills all our emptiness.

Sights, sounds, and smells of

your past and future carried with you—


Because no one can notice what we are

all drowning in but

a select few—


Because there is no other phenomena in this world

that monopolizes sensation like

the blues. They bleed into it all

through the veins of Gods.


It’s a religion older than me and you,

but we all are essentially faithful worshippers to

the sweet, slow slew of blue.