Lets jump from the tops of rusty city buildings,
Dance with the vibrations of the subway car,
Sing to the rhythm of passing traffic,
Ride the wind like a mechanical horse.

Lets write poetry of the slabs of pavement;
Bombarded by spit out gum and faded footprints.
Blend into the crowd to experience the faceless. Skip down alleys with bloodstained brick walls.

Lets strain our necks to see the tops of apartments.
Wave to the girl on the old red bicycle.
Hug in the back of a yellow pungent taxi.
Lets kiss in the city.

A heart hurts for the last song,
Lungs breathing- slowly-
Without dilation at the end of a summer's final dance,
Left and right we step together and grow vines between our toes,

Eyes connect,
Pupils sink into roots and dissolve time,
We become one,
We become two- As one- We are still-
In the moment-

Through these iodine eyes,
I bleed tears of pastel rose,
Scarlet rivers sitting silently outside the iris of a swirling hurricane,
The wind roars!
The sea is calm,
The bridge suspended above the creek sways gracefully in the gentle breeze,

Leaves bend and sprout incandescent green envy,
The sky steps on chalk filled clouds like feathered pillows,
A tip of the toe,
A rip in mother nature's fabric,
Stitches that mend tears into crest like smiles,

The Earth pulls us into each other like magnets- trapped in a box-
To be attached forever with no loose ends,
I sit and imagine what we could be...

A hooded figure lying in wait,
winds dance around,
hiding, revealing, twirling in circles,
it's almost time.

Hoarse coughs sound throughout the night.
He is not scared, he will not be harmed.
Time is endless, but time will stop.
This book is ending, another is near.

Him and his friends, they dance,
gracefully protecting,
in return, he gives them life,
one of darkness.

Blinks open his eyes, there is calm.
He greets the other as a true friend.
A life well lived, no regrets.
This new dance, slow and ageless.

Light emerges,
shadows retreat once more,
you are safe, for tonight.

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

Who owns the sunset?
Who is mistress of the stars?
Do the navigators of fortune
Sit at a table and boast?
Are the humours four fine sisters?

Can it be that I am
Master of all these things?
Do I  hold the yet untwined
Ball of string of the future in my hands?
My hands. My hands of no strength,
My hands of no extraordinary skill,
My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.

These fingers that are whole
In spite of broken spirits
Are treated as the fingers
Of perfection.
Of blamelessness.
Of forgiveness.

The threads of time
Are dusty in my fingers.
A fine mist of sediment
Crumbles at my touch.
Delicate stars are loosened
And burn out in my sight.

Reaching up I return
This future to the hands
In which It belongs.  
Stars and light dance down
Into my eyes, and I know
Who owns the sunset.

You’ve got palms like
whispered secrets and there are
bridges in your speech
patterns that I
am crossing
when I listen and I
got good at getting lost
some time ago and now
I’m getting great at
balance too at
balancing with you
on beams of hot dance
on watercolor roofs
on the edges of
blanket forts and
tripping roots
my legs rock like
chairs uneasy minds
inhabit and I often think
we might fall too fast and
break our backs while
our hearts get too full
to stay the same size
and what if our backs are broken
and our hearts have burst open
and our souls can’t breathe
anymore
well I guess then
we’d receive new eyes
wouldn’t we?

To find true meaning
you must first lose everything.
Even yourself.
Then you will understand
the weight things have.

With everything to gain
all one can do
is dance in the rain.

Then, there is no pain.