Migrations

French tip nails wax, then wane, like ends justifying means.

We kiss goodnight & leave bruises

the shape of Oscar Wilde’s slim gilt souls.

The lasts I notice: An extra shot of espresso, 

a cherry red Audi, a mattress dragged sideways onto the floor.

& those I don’t: grainy blue toothpaste

that’s safe to swallow, walking her dog down Alameda

before noon. Cinderella never had to worry

about bare feet on hot pavement, but I don’t think 

running out of time is a fairytale. 

Birds fleeing lavender, snow-drenched mountains 

that beg me to go with them. In the watery gray light 

of morning, I forget which coast I should wake up on. 

Outside my window, cicadas

are mourning. A man at the airport plays Fire & Rain

& I wonder if James Taylor ever gets tired of those chords. 

It’s all a question 

of migration.