On good days my dreams are the blackberries
Hanging from a bush they cut down
Where the little kids used to go
Six years ago
To get their hands purple and chew nervously,
Fearing their parents might walk down that little path to see
Their kids had left the pool.

On bad days my dreams are the white squares of paper
We put to our lips to change
The aforementioned 'their' from an 'our.'
Hoping our parents don't walk the path again and connect
The size of our pupils to the
Purple of our ancient fingertips.

It's the same wind that knocked down the black-berry bush
That writes these words and holds these white squares
To lips. We had a good dream together
Not long ago.

taking another step in the crisp air,
wind pushing against my face
but feeling the warmth of your breath as you speak of how amazing the colours of Fall are.

let's have an adventure,
with the smell of wet trees
and dying leaves.

the tip of my nose chilled,
but the sound of crunching leaves distracts me.

fingers so cold,
sweater so warm.

wishing Fall would last forever,
because,
I'm *forever falling for Fall

Tonight I'm feeling unattached
Unmatched
Unabashed
Mashed
Blended
'Spended'
Pended
Re­ndered
Rent
Lent
Out to the highest bidder
As they snigger
At their puppet.
I don't know how to stop it.
as I sit laughing into the precipice
A kiss of death
Away from oblivion
Get a ****** move on.

Perhaps I'll soon be gone

Perhaps I've been too long

Perhaps

I'm going to make
pancakes today
and I won't be grumpy
if they're lumpy

Because I'll know
what's in 'em
and how good they'll be
in me

Along the far wall
beneath the outstretched
limbs of jacarandas
I see him walking
each morning at
his constant time
even when the sun still
half asleep hides behind
overburdened clouds

Sometimes he
waves and
sometimes he
smiles but
mostly he just
walks on looking
down the road to
where I wonder

And I only
watch him briefly
now and again
on days when
I am able and
on days when
I am not I know
that he is there

Until the day when
I look out and see
that he has reached
his destination traced
by constant footsteps
beneath the outstretched
limbs of jacarandas
along the far wall

Maybe if I were a
hummingbird. Wine-throated
in Guatemala, would that be
far enough away, or is it such
a romantic notion to want to
to be fast enough to escape but
beautiful enough to be noticed