I was once stood
On a precipice of light.
Touching both salt
And air.
There was no bird
That I couldn't see
With my eyes,
No question I couldn't hear
With my ears,
No answer to withhold in my heart
From giving both bright
And true.

In our bed
In our house.
The terrain of body
And spark.
The flickers of night
Wedged in-between.
I was older, once.
Before I met you.
Before we knotted arms.
Before the vending machines
And the round-trips
To all-night road maps.
I'm open.
I'm rare.
I'll be raw honest when
You question my pain.
Everything hurts.
Red as a sunset,
I'm ready to let go
Of the light.

It didn't matter

that the bird

survived.

It didn't matter

that the council

drained the lake.

The long

summer

never actually

arrived.

The blue sky

eventually went

and lived else-

where.

I asked the dog

why you were

so sad. Was told

that you always

hated July. Something

about the coldness,

and so

always having to hold

on to the

warmest parts

of each other.

I can't understand the world from your eyes;
you see the relentless opportunity in everything -
(even within me) -
Wasting nothing as a chance to explore.
Loving what you love and leaving whatever
you don't.
Sitting pretty while Daddy drafts
dumb poems.

Every little object may as well be
the Big Bang; a story as old
as a lifeline -
(you were mine.)

You could care less about the classics.
Life can be simpler than
everything Elton John wrote about
in the 70s -
(I can't wait to show you.)

One day you'll see much more of the world.
You'll love who you love
and love whoever you don't -

but shouldn't we all get to be
that way at least once?

What more can I say about the moon?
Silvering light, carried 'cross the nighttime.

Waking up this Thursday morning blue.
Laid right in your breathline.
Born right at the right time.

We changed a lot of things around the house,
And kept some of what probably should have gone out as well.
But I chalk that up to never looking back,
and never locking the door latch,
and never painting the windows black.

And I see myself inside your evening dream,
Seven horses, a castle, a stone wall, and a beauty queen.
And the birds cascade down from the cloud parade,
The sun fights for a new way,
a sky knocking on the bedroom shade.

Home, 2002.
That made me 10.
Watermelon going off,
back of the fridge drawer.
Salt the boiling water.
Pasta and egg again.
Save travel for travel,
we don't go far from
the dinner plates we know.
Something Bourdain says
on the TV (which shouldn't be on)
invites me in to a street miracle
(which shouldn't be real.)
Would Jesus really die for a taco?

All of this war for
a curling acre of skin
pushing against
the door of the night.

You knock
at my heaving chest.
I offer to refuse,
but we dance along anyway.  

The rest of the work
is *******.

Some have hands
for creases, others
hold hands better for boxing.

I am from a land
of talk; a land
of double-tap-for-a-like
religion.

Here, the wind
carries our spines for us.  

Here, we don’t eat
anything straight
from the bowl.

I named my horse Goldie
for no other reason except
that it seemed true to her.  
She wanted to show courage
and join the fight.
I told her that having courage is sometimes sitting
on the sidelines;
polishing our fists,
waiting to walk away.

I told her I just want to find what
this earth has to offer
and then walk myself home.