Orange orange ferry gulls rise quieter than buoys I feel deep hum we play the song of all immigrants all lovers crossing dance with this blue mother mantis ⁃ we love her but she just might kill us all but such is our tremulous luck to even care to be so privileged here on anchorage side where only scraps of statue-firing light hit barge sides to enjoy the thrill of anxiety to savor imagined disaster, the Joker’s card not played yet here in gloamy security-cammed espanoled is she crying or does she just look like that photo in process I cross my legs for warmth   towering logs with no kindling no tindrous bits does not a city make   I am no match for New York and yet this box, this fire-colored book keeps us dry somehow across February across wide harbor     Bed of My Past I sit in the bed of my past Warm comforter of memories wrapped Around my defenseless thighs And I struggle silently Big book in hand Last light on For a future As the new boys Bring back baggy bottoms And I wonder have I missed my intended cycle Of life And am I now a dead Satellite orbiting Smiling, wise-talking The earringed boy Looking all around Like a tarsier trapped Beautiful wide-eyed Rare And excusing himself For no reason And I know Eating the barnyard grit With my feed Chicken that I am The man I once Excused myself from De-trapped from Just a decade, Nay Four years ago And as much as I knew I’d be me This way Soon I Barred the empathy from Flowing full and free Through Permeatata And walked from Mine own self To come   Shine on You crazy Balding Diamond   Jet night Walnut brick He gazes Intrigued But wary   And I begin to steel Not glances But my whole self For a near certain Non-followup To the penned note This moment now Being entirely Stolen Between us A brief dance Rubato   But then I have never known How to say I’m Head over heels In love How the structures Even loosening In my own time Have never lent themselves To full declamation Full I-want-to-disrobe-and-explore-you Come what may Masculinity being Fickle in its Glass wall pickle Always threatening Even through louche eyes To cut you   I adjust the pillow Pull the blanket in closer Yawn and swallow Note the knots in my back Feel the field of aches and wounds Inflammate records Of other hesitations, fails And confoundments And there are tears around The edges of my eyes   I do not even know if I will live But I sure, goodness do I know I have loved I have given love Like a greeter handing out Coupons To a cold deaf Occasionally teasing Pitying Friend-ful crowd   I No We Have to die now I guess And I know I shouldn’t talk loose   Cast lines then And I will try my best To doggie paddle To shore     Opening the Trunk Green-Wood Cemetery, 5.2.20   Rays nuzzle glacial ranks Grass on grass Green through the mask Ricochet beams bounce Back up blades Quivering air For the first few feet For woodchucks and violets For mockingbird wings For seedpods and dirt clods And optimistic things   I am glad my sight Goes dizzy At the base of elms From whence it springs The warmth of new season I leaf out Through my granite seat Root out in full Set sap running Thank LaFarge’s Architect For a perch To drink in ⁃ What color are my chlorophyll That take in peace That process rays of calm Into content imagination?… Read More “Three poems by Brad Vogel”