Two poems by David P. Kozinski

Heliotrope


Until just now I had forgotten

the name of the boraginaceous flower

that turns always to the sun

twining up a neighbor’s green stem

corkscrew fashion.


We pull to the warmth of coins left in the car,

the shine of newly buffed skin.


When I struggled with Algebra

Mr. Palmer suggested I tell people,

This isn’t in my nature, and offered

that maybe I’d turn out to have the faculty

for theoretical math. Alas, he fixed on the stars

and delighted at miracles.


But I knew it was the glint of the weightless hairs

on Thayer’s crossed thigh, invisible

until a sunbeam glanced in the window

that would stock my toolbox

and Debbie’s thrown back shoulders

and the sheen of her black mane flowing over them,

the geometry of the hardball field,

the bump and grind of carnival rides in Rockford Park

through the open windows of May,

the prickly wit of new foliage.

Anything but X and Y shoved next to numbers

to make problems,

their cardinal sleights.


Then, there are the night-bloomers