Bike Shorts, No Underwear
I leave my house with dirty hands
because I can wash them in your bathroom.
I avoided you because I saw in you avoidance.
A cleaner reason isn’t with me now and
won’t come when called.
I even sat for it, asked for it, pleased for it,
with my hands pressed against each other
But now I am the dinner scallop
thirsty in my bath.
In the morning, with cold jade stones,
we will carve our faces out
from the clay that inflated them.
And I'll come back home
with your hands in my pocket.
I will always, rhetorically, come back.
As if all I could write about with the sun on my face
was the sun on my face
If that was the case, I don’t exist in the trees anymore
cause I climbed down
Is it a fault of vision or imagination?
Ice lets change feel like itself
and before the first bite
unripe oranges taste real
In Maine, I face west
where the water is interrupted by a dark moss
The only memory I have of Berkeley is standing at an intersection
where the wind hollows the sun’s promise
There is, likewise, a man I know—
says he wants to connect
and when I look through glass: I believe it!
Look how his absence makes shadows of the rocks
Look how he makes the houses on the water edge
look like they’re facing him with freckled brick
And look at that good pity he brings in!
I get to feel bad for the coast side he neglects
But when I step outside and feel
I wish again to know him through the car window
where heat can be delivered
by the shade of the sun alone
Franny Weed is a poet, playwright, and filmmaker living in Brooklyn.