Some say opening, blooming,
But each petal unwinds
Itself across the air,
Denying gravity’s hands
And existing only for itself
And its encircled sisters.
The wheat waits for us
Brushes and waves
Licking the moonlight
It’s seed ready for an Odyssey.
The grass has laid a graph
Of shadows on top of you.
And what do you wait for?
There is never a right time
To become what we wish we weren’t.
Failing silence, I speak to say
Tomorrow’s weather will be better.
Drier, dry enough to move
through this field without
Casting ditches made by machines.
You gather the invisible fabric
Of the air around yourself and
Touch your lips in thought.
Can I see? The grass is an ocean
And I wonder
if we will find one another in it.
Lessen the lively way
You say, forever. Forever
Is not what you think it is.
Burnished steel with oil
And old cotton shirts. Buttons
On fire when the world ends.
Is it a guidepost or clock,
An imperceptible second or
The sun’s arc across the sky.
More so fatal reasoning
And an equation only
Invented, not discovered.
Shifting winds flap
Across my eyes
Until blackness spans
My memories and
Your memories of me.
I am not sure how to say, “I miss you”
without fearing your reply. Days, months
and years came upon me quickly, so
that now, the past seems distant and
I seem callous. I was drowning and still
I circle the edge of a pond that I am at
the bottom of. If today is a struggle for me,
I cannot speak. Today is a struggle for you,
but because you need support,
I cannot ask for yours. Somewhere,
at sometime, I thought, I cannot give
and take. It must be then that I remove
myself, so that I avoid taking too much.
Time is not my friend, no more than
the persistent blackness of my mind is.
Tandem brothers, “be forgotten”
and “tomorrow” speak without pause,
When I have pushed
back the edge of my thoughts,
bleeding like watercolor
my desires, my personality, my perception,
I am cautious because it appears
that I have forgotten you. Just know,
missing doesn’t happen without love.
What are phantoms made of?
The mist from lava dropping into the ocean
words spoke softly
dim lamps with antique shades
padded steps on a wood floor
good advice, in retrospect
dappled forest light
a large single stone, out of place
a single light aimed at an object in a history museum
the human-shaped indentation in a mattress or pillow
a discarded book
a discarded musical instrument
his favorite song
her favorite song
his favorite psalm
her favorite psalm
an empty house, filled with furniture
a child’s imaginary friend
When you paint a house
it must be blue, for this
is the color of home.
The soft robin’s egg edges of motherly
relationships, the deep indigo
of sleep and dreaming begins
at your hand. Reunions, a pale sky
of ephemerous greetings
and embraces. However wayward
the color of distant foothills
and city lights are,
home remains blue.