Puff Of Smoke Poems

At night, lost in the dark,
our dreaming selves wander long hallways
trying every door till something opens.
All night, we step in and out
of so much already in progress
with those particular and mysterious
hidden origin stories.
Any night, every night, the tiniest details
tether us to our ordinary days now
turned fantastic or gruesome
melancholy or hilarious.
Often, there is rain in the night
a staticky presence masking
the dreamer on the other side who keeps
tapping on our shared window
knocking hard to get our attention

heart like a cold engine
unstarted for too long
promised leisurely Sunday drives
or thrilling racetrack curves
when what you truly mean
is Stay Put,
quietly
in the dim and cobwebbed garage

most days I do not
think of you. I’ve trained myself
to turn away but
last night you were in my dreams
you, and your big dog, too

Too much to choose from
shiny books delectable
as scattered jewels thrown
on the ground or berries tipped
from the bush to the cracked bowl.
Choose for me, she says
Just tell me which one to read.
Desperate to know
desperate for someone else
to pick wisely as if books or berries
are about to disappear.

I fell in love the other day
with a voice on the radio
Brazilian, a climate scientist
who spoke in metaphors and
Chinese proverbs explaining
in his luscious Portuguese accent
how to understand the rain forest
we burn what is best understood
compared to love—
when you give more,
you get more
he promises

Unexpected angels
covered the table
Take one, says their creator
as the guests arrive—
Take as many as you need.
I ended up with extras.

The festive hubbub of arrival fades. Faces turn thoughtful, as humans and angels ponder their choices.

I must secretly adore
rushing around like a mad woman
Late Again
tossing coffee lunch vitamins and
high heels into the briefcase of the day
I must love it
because here I am
Here I Am
doing it again

At three a.m., almost like clockwork, a path opens in the night. Those who dream themselves sleepless can enter the stories of dark fairies, stolen princesses, mirrors full of secrets.

Before the rest of the resting real world wakes, do some traveling.

Soon enough, an alarm will ring inside the real world and call you back to the land of agendas and cell phones, where the only golden things are chocolate coins and costume jewelry and fingernail polish.

You may be sleepy all day, wandering past open windows , catching a glimpse — the tail of something wondrous strange disappearing into the scrub brush at the edge of the forest.

And was that forest always there, at the edge of the truck-choked highway?

There are paths, even in the daylight. Every time you eat an apple or look into a mirror, for a moment—less than a moment—you’ll catch a scent on the invisible wind. Was it always invisible, you wonder, or was it filled with tiny glittering things with wings? Oh, every mirror, every apple, you’ll almost remember. Almost like clockwork.

for too many good reasons
money melted itself in my pockets
and flowed easily, downhill,
Away
leaving the faintest scrim of gold
on all the rebuilt walls
of my secret home
with its fine and latchable door
worth any price

How can one day hold both
terrorists in Paris
and the six-point buck
eating our windfall apples

Handsome and so tame,
or such a glutton
or so sure of himself
he barely glances up
as I walk towards him

Somehow, this moment exists
here, in the midst of hunting season