Alone I stand in a dark graveyard Bodies lay still but there are no souls I walk alone without my heart Can’t fill these empty wormholes How can anyone say she didn’t matter She was everything to me Selling their soul is what they’d rather Married into a portal to hell on earth I’m born
At seven a.m. the trees at this park make a green horizon like a fence whose slats are neither warped or out of place. It is the only green part of the day. Lawns are brown, their grass as dead as brooms. It’s October and the trees still have leaves. We are in need of
It’s a short drive to the park. Winter has made a whimsical return as if to poke fun at Spring. Snow powdered trees appear to float in rainwater lagoons. I throw my daydreams into placid pools and wish for sunlight. In the foreground, flakes fall, melting instantly on a glass stage. In the distance, they
With a fleeting first glance, I walked past you standing along the path, instead giving more attention to my footing and my morning conversation. But something about your weathered features struck me. I knew I needed to see more of you. So, I turned around. Retraced my steps. Approached you, reverently. Raised my camera ready.
–After W.S. Merwin The Yellowlegs skims the surface of the creek. Polished by first light, the water frees its liminal soul from a veil of mist. It flies wing tip-to-wing tip with its self. The Sandhill crane cranks its voice. Ratchets its call to others standing tall among the reeds, their long necks just visible
shorebirds slicing the dawn into tatters. you found me without a tether. drifting in that endless blue, sans anchor, sans moor. I was a drenched and drowning thing until you, like Jove in the guise of an eagle, lifted me to higher realms. if I were a moon in your eyes, if there was mercy
Poured what remained of his dreams Into a cereal bowl – Well, it was actually a McDonald’s cup But it served the same function. Figured if he could eat it He could go on living it too Digesting it square by square, Calorie by calorie. Except it had lost its taste Or rather he’d lost
She spreads her wings, the luna moth, sea-foam green lit-through by the sinking sun on that evening on the path below the willow. You take my hand, your thumb stroking my palm to the slow beat of her wings. Her fuzzy antennae flutter in the evening air. Almost newborn, her wings, almost dry. Soon she
I wake at dawn easing into my robe and slippers. I slip outside heeding the call of her ineffable beauty. This morning miraculous in full blossom when just a week ago her tiny, tight dark buds hid behind just opening purple leaves. Now no wind, though grey clouds allude to rain. Quietly padding on the
I am going to pour myself onto your shores dance in drips for your amusement glisten on pebble to catch your eye show you a treasure of broken things teach you persistence through smoothing rough edges remind you that constancy never has to look the same I am going to sit with you in the
