Eve Rounds

the families

where the angle of the trunk
allows humans to be silly and reckless
stretching out over
low levels of occasional rapids
high levels of constant laughter

look closely to see
pin pricks speckling the dirt
evidence of the missing conductor
cup both ears to hear
a deafening orchestra
lulling these same humans to sleep on a clean carpet

we wake aurally refreshed after
seventeen years

by
Rounds, Rounds, Rounds, Ingram, Rounds (& Tucker)
June 2021


but ok but

write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!

incircles

is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards