I used to build words
like a carpenter—
lines hammered out
plank by plank
word for word,
like bridges
spanning waters
for anyone
eager to cross.

And now
I write to meet the page
like aching skin,
like quiet water
hesitant to ripple—
careful to bear a mark.

All the words
I’ve sent off—
paper boats,
adrift.

I let them all go,
travelers,
and bridges alike,
let them sink or rise—
and let the tide
bring the words
home.

i need to stop
setting myself on fire
to keep you warm.

She said “you’re smoking”
I said “you are, too”
She asked me to put it out-
something I could never do

She said “it is snowing”
I said “it is glowing- I am afraid”
She told me to make an angel
before it’s too late

i held you like a rope with no slack,
searing my palms as you pulled away and i held on tight

and when i finally let go
i wondered why the love hurt more than the leave

I was falling
for you

the feeling of
being weightless

the sky and
the ocean are
blue

like your eyes

your eyes and
Einstein’s brain

are the depths
I can never reach

but I will drown trying
to reach either or both

When the
naked branches
blew in
the late
autumn winds,
our love died.
How I long
for the days
of spring,
when all was
alive with
newness.
We lay beneath
the willow tree
and dined on wine,
bread and love.
God,
how I miss you.

When you are a musician
you have every songbird and melody.
When you are a philosopher
you have every question like clockwork.
When you are an artist
you hold every delicate stride and stroke in your soul.
When you are a poet
you have every avidity with words.

When you are a person,
what do you have?