Archive | May 2014


A day for not-naming,
for not-knowing.
And I shed the dream
like winter’s clothes.
His hand rests
on the thin soft skin
of the excavation,
And I’m hoping the storm
can’t catch me again.
Only my own bliss to seek.
You don’t ever need
to worry —
this lightning
can’t reach past
our stomping ground.
I remember.
And I forget —
we are deviant, yes,
but never devious.
We play at escape,
but all for the page.
And no one gets hurt
from pretend.



It stays with me now —
all the ways
I have bent myself
into an offering,
a proof.

And I want him here,
like I wanted him there —
and you’d think a decade
would learn to surpass fear.
But we invent new ways
to worry.

So again,
I am making myself
an altar —
and this bent black magic resonates
with all the waking wet green.

Go ahead.
Offer him anything he wants.

Someday you’ll learn
all the words for need,
and how one can want
without taking.


I refuse
to cry over this.
I am not going to
How could one bear
the exposure?
The scrutiny?
I keep it still,
steady and locked.

A May snow melts
half seconds
above the ground —
insubstantial omens.
And I am grown
so cold and hard-hearted.

Still trying
to place them
in space and time —
to the minute
of the actions,
as though this definition
could further define
my own reactions —

how did I grow
so far and foreign?

There is something
we all want.
But the taking
is hard.
So we give it,
and hope that will suffice.


We’ve got our hands
down deep in it,
and I am swallowing

I want to be
this slight obscuring mist
that breathes us in
and falls
over all our endearing,
exquisite sinfulness.

Don’t worry
I’ve forgotten
what’s real.
He’s gone a bit

But on my knees,
hands in my hair,
he says the words.
And those words
are mine.


With the ghost
in the navigator’s seat,
we turn into the deluge,
proceeding on blind faith,
and praying the road
will rise to meet us —
a crescendo
we can neither touch
nor feel.

Long we left
the map behind,
but I always had
a sense of direction
and perception
of all the ways
matter must occupy space.

We might fall,
we might fail,
we might find the hidden road.
Bedeviled with ignorant angels,
we ride the storm —
seeking silver light,
greeting each breaking
with weary welcome.
The weaving will be
as it wills.


We test the frozen edge,
and first is a slow,
bruising pain.
We seek to restrain.

We learn —
to sit,
to stand,
to walk.

We watch —
waiting for some new myth
to take hold —
one to believe.

Swallowing the dark night,
we wake shouting.
And it throbs
and trembles
as it recedes.

We beat wings
confining wire,
watching the sky
darken and reverse
through dusty windows.

sleeping —
nothing is as real.