Find and share the perfect poems.
A shark swims into the bay, swirls, and then rises with the ugly grin of millennia.
A match flame to a cigar, years later a campfire, and long after a house on fire.
Love—to forget language and act on instinct, its indestructible form.
—Something written on a piece of paper after an astonishing event. That paper
found a long time later.
I am, I am, she said, licking a grape Popsicle in July. Make it last, he said right after.
It seemed as though she had leapt toward her own cremation.
A few books shining like the wood of trees. —Ones that I’ve climbed or held.
When we could no longer walk or explore, we decided to wear
the maps and would sit talking, pointing to places, sometimes
touching mountains, canyons, deserts on each other’s body,
and that was how we fell in love again, sitting next to
each other in the home that was not our home, writing letters
with crooked words, crooked lines we handed back and forth,
the huge hours and spaces between us growing smaller and smaller.
Now light turns the room a deep orange at dusk and you
think you are floating, but in truth you are falling, and the fall
is so slow, yet precise, like climbing a ladder of straw. Now
leaning forward, you open your hands that keep opening. Is
this what Yes feels like? Making a shore where no water was?