Poem #794 – why I dream of them only after they were gone

I neither flick nor otherwise attempt destruction
of the tiny flea that jumps onto my arm
a “good” person doesn’t fuss over trivial matters

it harvests my blood,
not nearly enough to suck me dry,
I itch for a week.

I am angry.
it’s not the blood I miss
it’s the bump I never wanted

Poem #792

sweep me up at the dark beach
I can’t stop smiling
the palpable touch of air heavy with salt
your arms bunching up the folds of my sweater
the feeling that I’m special

I think of you always after dusk
when the breeze is soft
and the light is softer

you remind me of dancing
in my grandma’s yard
on desert nights with wind chimes
and a lovingly watered willow tree

you’d watch me dance
smiling as big as I am