I had heard the foghorn of my loneliness;
And heard it again, as its whisper of an echo bounced off the wall behind me

I had grown so skillful,
An artist in giving small things around me mouths to speak, and eyelids to blink, languidly...
Keeping company with puzzles and rain puddles,
And giving each piece a sensible place in our misshapen realm

Trying to place the puddles,
I observed the feminine qualities of the gentle dips in the landscape,
One being their proclivity for mollifying such a tumultuous force as weather

I watched as the many depressions of the earth wept,
The looming Nimbostratus filling them wholly, the downpour continuous;
And found it fitting to think that each puddle held its place as a notable fragment in the jigsaw of a swamp that was beginning to form in my backyard.

In that moment, I suppose it was my place to be forming a thought about that swamp
And how I could compare it, in all its watery pieces, to something else in some poetic way.
Word by word,
Carefully,
So I could write it down on paper later.

To be heartless
Where I stand
And gaze so leery
At a blushing moon
Love,
Beforehand
So little did I know
Of you

I hope one day to be at rest;
Palms turned upward...

And so I am
Reminded
With each passive breath
Certain
As Deaths skinless head
Approaching

On a constant fire watch
For corpses
And their puppeteered mannerisms
Like how they eat paper
And lay upright
With their very spooky postures

Our fruit trees have grown to a corpse.
Their ghosts
Have corresponding depressions,
Beneath my sleeping head
They lay.
Aimless and dreaming,
I will be a meadow,
Which whispers your name.

Just while I sleep
Love surrounds me
Like a woman, like a let down
Barely a sound, absent of voice
Slowly my bones are crushed,
Without a noise.

Warmer than pale,
Barely
I hear old moonbeams
Dripping off my bed frame.