There in line we stood,
I switched places,
and moved closer.
Love letters is what
you'd write me.
From Chicago,
is what you said.
In the morning,
just an empty bed.
The train,
it took you early.

A day

is nothing but a

sad dream.

Laying in bed,

until the sun



sets,



the lights get



dimmer,



the wounds,



deeper



the salt,



coarser.

I am a wrinkle in a blouse;
I am a hand under a bridge;
I am the last leaf to fall
before the autumn goes.
I am both the observer,
and the unobserved.

The trees stood there amassed,
huddled like a tribe on the edge side.

Facing towards the water,
they looked forlorn,
as if they had just sent a burial out to sea.

A spark,
A mast,
Raised,
A ripple,
Stretched,
A fog,
Melting through,
The dirt,
Yells,
It pulses.
We pulse

The night is young,
And for us small ants,
The river is very shallow.

So thin to allow,
Our weightless bodies,
To skim across the surface.

Invincible to,
Being pulled under,
By the lulling current.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, when you do not know of it,
I like to look at you up close.
The hair on your face, under your chin,
Like little crop circles that developed in the night.

When all we know
is set aflame,
make foot prints in
the coal.
The soot,
a war paint,
midnight fair,
on your jutting
cheekbones.

It seems as if
this is her day,
walking across that
balmy street, strutting
two dogs in tow,
heeled boots with
leg warmers
like rabbits,
peeking out of
their holes.
Everything in it’s
right place,
rituals directed
somewhere but nowhere
to make meaning
in our lives.