last day of June —
moss on the north side
of a tombstone

Father’s Day —
walking the dog
in the rain

hours before
the Vieques sunrise
a rooster crows

June overcast —
a cross in the median
of a busy highway

dreams of airports

last night I dreamed
that we were stranded in an airport
a glittering tomb of glass and steel.
you slept
I wrote
trying to capture the ghosts
hidden
behind impossible angles
the glare
of a soda machine
and the hum
of overhead lights.
when you woke
you read my words
and asked
"why am I not in your poem?"
"you are in the poem,"
I replied.
"the poem is you."

Mother’s Day —
a full moon
framed by clouds

May Day —
the dog protests
a shiny new collar