Poetry | Journal

So this is how it goes.
Air slows when you hear it.
The next inhale pulls a bass line.
Cabin pressure is lost.

Ringing in my ear
is the specific pitch of your laugh,
the deep belly grab
the tingle of fresh cut grass in the dog park
the thud of a frisbee thrown too far
the alibi we knew wouldn’t fly.
You know, it’s spring time again.

It is raining in the Pacific North West
and I am awash through 2011
as I pin a Blue Moon cap to my jacket.
You wanted to make a table from these
and asked if I’d hold on to them
until you got back