This story circles the earth
like a river scribbling a message
of scars and songs and a something-else,
swirling like old-fashioned script
beyond the binding of a book.

A vagabond leaves the trail of words
dropping from palms stained with ink,
blue from a wet horizon.
The salt of three seas press to her lips
as they part.

The wind brings songs to quench her word-thirst.
Syllables soak the world with sound
and the air fills with the smell before rain,

She tastes phrases of perhaps
and imagines the final page as a picture book:
a rowboat anchored with hope.

I don’t fuss
For once
I let the wind blow my hair away
I let myself look like a fool
I let my skin feel cold
And I enjoy it
Today, I am not in a hurry
For the first time
The rain touches me like a mother

It’s my last day for this race
I do not pull away from the night
I do not draw back from the moon
I let the world push on,
Push over me
Leave me
behind

You are autumn to me
Orange brown and burgundy
A breath between the heat and the freeze.
Warm enough to melt me into softness
But cold enough to keep me quite alive.
You are a falling asleep,
With the intention of a new awakening.
You are an icon of style,
Effortlessly thoughtful
A medium of practicality and luxury.
You are a narcotic spell,
Spices from a native blend
Something I breathe in,
And it completely changes me
Before I breathe it out again.
You are a season to me
And I click over a bead,
Counting.

Like love, know that time lies,
Heart in the day want feel away
Night make world say don't words think.

I'm mind little things light.
Don't long man face look left, right
Tell people need good soul.
Lost sun, hand place hands new pain.
Old inside smile.

Remember full sky,
God hope days cold.
Ill thing live,
tears black leave dreams.

Oh skin, air, gone past lips.
New thoughts can't far white,
Going beautiful dream.
Girl goes deep, your sleep stop.

Hail that lovely laughter juice.

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

I lied when I told you
that I was okay, that
colors were still colors
and that my thoughts
were still pure.

you should've known better,
dear, that I am the dirtiest
form of clean, gritty smile
and the inescapable nature
of a poet.

don't look so surprised
at the words that bounce
off the roof of my mouth.
I know you shudder at
my carelessness, at my
inclination to destruction,
but don't look at me that way,
darling.

don't come around,
if you can't thrive on decay.
don't think twice about leaving,
I never promised you a martyr.

They have been uprooted from the only life they have ever known,
the poor things.

New so-called family, new barred cage, new fake toys.
Scared shitless. (Literally.)

They will try to tempt you.

"Pretty bird." "Pretty bird."

Don't you dare trust the humans.
Don't you dare let them clip your wings.