My Dad’s Cologne
We are always walking hills in my dreams,
kite-tails of evening hanging.
A cloud under each wrist.
grass topped with red like cheeks
the people saying goodbye
iris blooms, goodbye
loud porch step,
sky like candlewick,
sun a slick
a new nozzle shines under the wrapping.
Essence of Being Six:
I feed peanuts
to elephants and he lugs me
twelve blocks home.
My ears are buoyed to his shoulder.
We are stepping on oceans.
Genuflecting across the Atlantic mouthing ‘somewhere’
Sky dark. Water wild as black punch,
This old smell. That brutal and beautiful spritz.