What's Chipping.

They said
if you thought that the wind howled last night,
wait until you hear tonight's cooked up
pot of storm brew.

People look forward to things. when,
when they look backwards they trip on sidewalks;
uneven and patched with tar. They
look at patches of dry grass in the yard
of my neighbor's house

you know the ones
that mormon family
who moved away
the daughter pregnant
a year out of high school

that blue house
that's what's chipping.
The wind can howl at the shingles sometimes,

but when we find our bodies
inside, in sweaters, scarves
--pajamas, even
flannel lulls the sky of my sheets to sleep.

How to show anger, politely.

What if what I said made you
mad
or sad?
Is there any chance that who we are
has potentiality for radiant gladness,
for possibility,
for things to come?

These seeds are not grown overnight,
trees are not grown over weeks
but in decades of archaic time
when wishful thinking let me chopped wood on my professor's property
when we made love and kisses happen in the bathroom
when we drank bottles dry with french man and woman.

Things happen when we are organically,
scarily,
ourselves.

Nothing more, nothing less.
Let it rain.