Two poems from the summer.

Route 17

I will always feel at home in appalachia.
Inexplicable, but the rolling green
(hills, at best, rather than the mountains they claim to be)
dotted with farms
pierce the blue of the sky in a way only barely-mountains can.

Inhale the sunny cold of Maine,
exhale the infinite mossy green of Pennsylvania.
(sometimes New York sneaks up on me
and my breath catches in my throat).

It's hard to drive on 17 in a straight line
when beauty catches your eyes and tries
to pull you off the road.
Rumble strip.
--07/06/08

REM
Sometimes I kiss your forehead while you're sleeping
and watch you shift a little,
wondering if I interrupted your dream.

Maybe your huge, steel airplane
just did a barrel roll
or your car turned into a boat
and sped off into the sea.

Maybe you just made a three pointer
(in a losing game, probably,
though I might be underestimating your basketball skill)
or sewed a man's heart into his chest
and watched it beat again.

I wonder if you watched your sister pitch a no hitter
or your brother hit a hole in one on 18 to win it all.

Or maybe I have no effect
on the content of your REM.
But why, then, do you smile when
you feel my lips on your face?
--07-06-08