Two Poems

I would like what binds us to always happen underwater

I would like what binds us
to always happen underwater.
We’d fasten weight belts,
strap huge aqualungs to our backs,
and live like this.
What we share would unfold so slowly
it would feel endless to us both.

Our movements would be cautious, deliberate.
Quarreling would be impossible—
we’d run out of air before we could shout.
And where else could we learn to read
each other so clearly,
with just a glance—
even through masks?

I’d hire the best onshore cooks
to prepare the fish I’d hunt for you,
sending it up for cooking
and down to us again.

Our feet would tread softly through the sand.
Sometimes, sunlight would break
the water’s shifting surface,
strewing the seabed
with greenish cobblestones.

You’d slip into your best shoes,
and we’d promenade all evening, our legs entwined
with the bendy thermometers of eels,
the sea’s way of taking its temperature.

One night, after yet another stroll,
we’d return to our reef,
shed our equipment,
and lie in the sand together,
breathing the same air,
until gills bloomed through our backs
and in your belly
tiny fists
would begin to stir—
the new swimmer.



The Bicycles of My Dreams

Come lie beside me,
or the bicycles of my dreams won’t move.
Shape your lips like a child. Let the forests speak in your head.
Those you protect most of all—do not lose yourself in them.
Let the evergreens rustle
before savage wolves strip them clean.
Tell me you are near. Scare them off.
Let them retreat and howl to the other moon,
somewhere far away from us.
I will ruffle the stiffened army of your fingers,
so fast and more agile than any well-drilled cavalry.
I am lucky; I am not afraid of what scares you.
I will become a fox, burrow into the ground,
and twist off their heads so you can’t see them.
On the waves of your hair we will row our boats
to the hidden side of the river and attack from there.
Cheek to cheek we’ll strike fire,
and so feed whoever stays.
Our grass-threaded blanket has morning sewn into it.
Smile.