so foolish, I fell
for the idea of you
your shadow, my dream

And the Sun loved his people

So much that when he couldn't be there

He left a reminder of his light in the sky

A brilliance in the blackness

One they could look to

One they could hold onto in the dark

And it was his promise that

He would always return

That they were never really alone

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

doves send messages
and in the halls
you do not
look at
me

so sweet
so shy
we both let months go by

girls in dresses
flowers in their hair
nails painted blue
naive and unaware

that boys in suits
watch them from afar
wishing they were brave enough
to get out of the car

there is a sculpture
she claims unsketchable
of a woman in a mangled
frozen pose

the people flock to kiss
her pale lifeless feet
and gaze up in such proximity
to the angelic, unravelled woman
who becomes something more
in their gazes

but we sit from afar
and she marvelled at those wings
at the bends and swerves of that limestone
or marble
at the spine and the cracks

the prose of anonymity in beauty without a face,
a fetish,
just awe in raw skill