A brass Saxophone
Resonating smooth soul-- still,
Cannot be a flute

they say
that when a poet falls in love with you,
you live forever.
i’m here to tell you,
it isnt true.

i write to burn you out
of my heart and my spine every word
is a birthday candle
blown out with my breath.

i write to capture you
freeze you in time
a prisoner of memory
and adoration.

but the papers will yellow and crumble
to dust
Technology rot in
Entropic chaos.

my words can attempt
to capture a shade, a shadow
of your magnificent
impossible existence.

my words can construct
a shallow portrait
can contrive a journey
determining which cosmic events
caused you to breathe.

my words on the breeze
will travel far
and dissipate into existence
becoming a part
of the striving.

they say
when a poet falls in love with you,
you live forever.
i’m here to tell you,
you were meant for more than
a stagnant idea of futile longing in the soul of one creature in the universe.

when i was born
my mother said
it felt as if a new mathematical state had come into being
       new creature.
              new possibilities
              
when my grandfather died
my mother said
it felt the same- as she sat in that old room, his spirit slipping into a new form
       old creature
              new possibilities

Flies want to befriend
but really they keep checking
to see if you are dead.