PRIVATE POEM

emerson said
what is genius
but finer love
in bed I am told
I think too much
though I have
thought hardly
enough of
our situation
on this sandbox day
the air elected
with a cobweb
attitude
this affliction
of speaking
naked to you now
in a gutted
phrase
I embezzled
from the public

CRYPTO

The alien
Purpleness
Between myself
And me
Is ordinary
For ordinary souls
I send you
A photo
Of my tits
While you’re living
In your car
Driving further
East
I send you
A photo
Of a dogwood
Tree
I want to be
Remembered
Like the glowing halo
Of consciousness
Around
A crumpled ball
Of tin foil
You tell me
You’re seeing
A dancer
Called Crypto
I clasp
The shaky
Light
In my gaze
Her resounding
Silver bikini
Her disco ball eyes

PINK TREE

In early
Summer
We cut
Each other’s
Hair
Short
Revealing
Hazy
Rooms
Between us
I cram
Tulips
In the
Corners
Of this
Clumsy
Zenith
I call
Something
What
It is
And it
Shrinks
Something
Whimsical
About the
Doom
Circling the
Sinkhole
After the flood
I say
I am
Cloudbound
The sky
Sends a
Petal
Chorus
Go cry
Pink tree
Cry
Your pink
Tears
Thick
Air
Montages
Everyone
I’ve worshiped
And departed
You speak
Of mangroves
Constructing
A boyish
Island
You boycott
Your life
Fashioning
A color
Foreseen
And fading
This lack
Of touch
Is damaging
My brain

COMMON THINGS

Are strange
When spoken
Aloud
This morning
You drizzle
Honey
Through
Muted sun
With your
Spider
Fingers
I feel myself
Softening
Toward you
I said
Real things
Last night
I’ve been
Practicing
So my story
Doesn’t come
Out wrong
I’m deciding
If it’s
Possible
To say
Something
Wrong
If you’re
In the presence
Of something
Good
I wager
It can be
I decide
That’s the
Story
Wrong things
Trying to be
Good then
Flunking
We wait
Out a small
Storm
Then search
For pools
On roads
Named
For celestial
And earthly
Bodies
Star Spur
Sparrow Wood
Missouri
A curious
Fable
Amidst
A large
Bewilderment
I point
To the
Metallic
Silver fire
Hydrant
Doing anything
To not be
Taken
Seriously
We pass a
Vegetable garden
Waffle House
Fishing hole
Clean enough
Maybe
For swimming
You like
Floating
On your back
I like
Watching
The forms
You produce
Satellite
Bullet
Blanket
Right now
I see you
Looking
Somewhere else
Recessed
Purple-ish
It’s not
About me
I accept that
But know
I won’t
Stop
Looking
At you
And jotting
Your splendid
Wrenching
Shapes
Late
Afternoon
Descends
Behind a row
Of willows
Hiding
Our bodies
Stripped
From open
Road
I cannot
Concede
The green
Nor the
Edge
Of this
Day
Opaque
Parachute

Haley Joy Harris is a poet from Los Angeles, living and teaching in western Massachusetts and Vermont. She holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Massachusetts-Amherst. You can find her other work in the Los Angeles Review, DIAGRAM, Fence, dialogist, Little Mirror, and elsewhere.