Night on the porch. Real darkness.
The rain tries out some rhythms
then shakes its head: “Take five!”
The frogs advertise in the fields for all they’re worth.

I’m not doing much. Vacation.
There’s a blanket, a chair,
the vague dark breath of the sea.
I want to be composing, too: what’s my worth?

Crack the delicate nest of night with porchlight.
You have to break some eggs, et cetera.

When I’m writing, or reading, or working in my apartment,
what I’ll want is to sit in the dark and sing back to these frogs.

***

Thanks to my original publishers at Cascadia Rising Review: https://www.cascadiarisingreview.com/fear-of-missing-out

Some days, some months —
let’s be honest, probably some years —
my pants don’t fit.
This is supposed to matter to me,
and it does.

In the drowsing noon,
I was sitting outside
and I asked the douglas fir next door
about this.
As usual, ki said nothing.

Well, I thought, you get rounder each year!
And you get rings for it.

***

With many thanks to the original publishers at Cascadia Rising Review: https://www.cascadiarisingreview.com/on-bodies