I've never liked my name,
so I tell you to call me Josie.

The O, an arc over the roses of my childhood
the garden in the front yard
where I fell asleep listening to Ravi Shankars' sitar.
Slipping, dead to the world, among the night blooming jasmine.

A beautiful thing.

Tonight,
future uncertain,
the stone weight of your head, adrift in dream on my hip,
feels a comfort to my blues.

A beautiful thing.

Napoleon for his Josephine,
can feel
the breath that you leave heavy on my thigh.

A beautiful thing.

in the meantime,
soft air pooling around me

the ghost of you
sleeping soundly on the porch

only waking to tell me
that we were meant to be an oak
how we were meant to peel
ourselves down to our cores
holding the part left
with closed hands

as the moon rises over the end of summer
the wind lulls you
and I am wanting

I have seen blue
the green blue of waves
an ocean of hope
I have seen blue

I have seen blue
in the eyes of a man
who woke up one morning
hopeful to start
I have seen blue

I have seen blue
the tear drops  from my own blind eye
wading toward an ocean of peace
I have seen blue

I have seen blue
a baby born cold
love only for his family
I have seen blue

I have seen blue
the man who saw
a flashing light
a weary spirit gone homeward
I have seen blue

I have seen Blue

I have seen blue.

Gravitating toward home
with its star stained skyline
a latch on every door
torn over coffee
the smell of peppermint
a tear here where tears have been
the hope of a stranger
helping to embolden
an empty cup
pouring.

More than this
blank wall,
a good morning
a relationship that lasts.

Bored to the teeth
with excuses
with a cure
with a death hum

More than this,
keeping heads eye
keeping the night black
I slept for one dose

A pink pill
a blue
the end of a love
the darkness escaping for a moment
of light,
the only truth I knew
expanding and reviving
the only soul I know.

Mine.

There are nights,
blue sky coming through the window
the last orange of the sun
no longer aglow
when I seek myself.

She is a daughter.
She is a son.
She is the weird and wary night coming in
                                                              ­        slowly.

softly
like an idly turning spinnerette
she awakes.

There is a morning,
fog traipsing through the mountain
around the trees
and to my door
when I see myself.

Here I sit with music
It is not mine
but I own it
As I own my body,
my mind and my soul
I have been hoping for a night like this with
no distractions.
The sun hangs low in the sky, and I am in need but not wanting.