Sleight of Hand

I ask you to take a word
and hold it in your ear,
practice saying it in the mirror
with different expressions
on your face, accenting
each syllable up and down
a scale of notes, low to high,
from beneath the big toe
of your right foot to behind
the top edge of your left eyebrow,
listen to it hum from a stutter,
then watch it drop into a puddle
of milk, slow motion, bouncing
an echo off your tongue
to find its saltiness, its sweetness—
if it is a good one, it will have both—
then spit it into your hands
and roll it between your fingers
like a coin, playing music
on your knuckles, and if
when you rim it, it rings clear,
lay it gently on the window to see
if its colors blend with the rest,
and if it does, breathe deep
and if not breathe deeper
and then begin again.

Upstate NY

colder here than June
is supposed to be, blackbirds
seem not to mind, glad

for puddles in a driveway
reflections muted
by a sunless sky above

on this road

i pledge allegiance
to dotted white lines,
the guard rail,
speed limit signs,
as 18-wheelers let me pass
going uphill, pass me back
going down, exit signs
wait
for my entrance

blogspotting

in time, we find each
other by the arrangement
of colors in a box, black letters
on a field of white, the sun
on the walls that surround us

orchids

we surround them, not knowing
their names, not knowing our own,
playing tic-tac-toe with all
the shades of green, the stems
broken in half at the water line