Boston from where I sit

I-93, red and orange, leaves shift, fall
with the breeze, cool, warm, between them
the early light speeds like cars against
a morning sky, a golden dome, where freedom trails
a youthful smile, the pavement under shades
of trees, the coffee cup, bagel, in open air
the turnpike, to say good-bye to clam chowder
to Denny’s, to autumn, red trees,  red socks
the red, bloodied earth, and to a hundred
pairs of feet.

To Measure a Woman

There is no physical equation, 
invention, or mention outside 
of dimensions, of lengths, of depths,
of curves, in fairness, of fair skins, 
of long eye-lashes, of duration 
of glances, of swinging hips, of lips,
red and wet, glistening in the light, 
like an object of study, peered into, 
hoping to measure and predict
the consistency, inconsistency of you.

Denied of tools, formulas, or numbers, 
with myriad variables, changing 
constantly like weather patterns, 
still I, fool-hardy, walk your days 
promised as full of summers, 
but cared less for thunderstorms 
that came instead, soaking these hands
that held yours I would not let
slip off mine, wind-blown away
like rain drops.