Playful sunboy, boisterous and rash,
do you think this is funny?

I’ve seen you snickering
swinging from the roof beams,
pecking at the taught strings
of us, your unwilling playthings.

You dangle comforts in front of our eyes,
long enough to want,
close enough to widen,
fleeting enough to waste away.

Who’s leg are you pulling?
Which ribs are you jabbing?

Playful sunboy, boisterous and rash,
your teasing is our torture.

Some drown
in the shallow pool
left after a punch-
line, before its verdict
sound or silence
the world is watching
swing the gavel already

Others lie awake
on a mattress that
squeaks on one side
untouched on the other.
They stuff their ears
full with neon lumps
but the quiet is lonelier.

I stand on a tower
staring at the view
staring back at me
no shade to hide under
I’m much too pale
and I’m burning
and its precarious
far too precarious
at any moment
I could stumble
and
stay up here
forever.

Flapping wings
will deliver me
nowhere
until my toes
release their
white-knuckles
from the dirt.

There is a puddle
that reminds me of you.
I’ve become such a regular
that its mud has
memorized the contours of my shoes,
right wider than the left,
toes turned out.

I imagine my puddle
listen to me
calling it mine
waits for my eyes
to peek over the weeds
a sweet surprise
for a lonely morning.
I step inside and I smile
and my puddle smiles back.

I keep it company
until the sun sets
and it clings to me,
asking me to stay
a little longer
and I do
until water soaks through my shoes
and my soles begin to blister
and I have to say goodbye

When I sleep dry and clean
wrapped in fleece,
I shiver for your hands
around my sodden ankles
impatient to wake
and sink again.
Drown if I could.

But some mornings
are lonelier than others.
Some mornings,
I stand in the weeds,
because my puddle
waits for eyes
that aren’t mine.
I wonder if tomorrow
I’ll stand in footprints
two sizes bigger,
favoring their heels.

I live
I creep
on tiptoes.

I'm the dogs barking
at the end of your street
the cars honking
outside your window
the fly buzzing
behind your ear
I'm all the sounds
you mistake for silence.

On tiptoes
I peer through the window
and watch wide eyes
straight backs
crisp collars
check their watches
and wonder where I've gone
and wonder why I've gone.

I think if
I step softly enough
on tiptoes
I could see everything
I could be everything
without leaving behind anything
not a sound
not a footprint.

Afraid of her waves,
I steer into the trees,
fashion my nest
From the oars and leaves.
Teach oldies to the birds,
mice, the harmonies,
squander afternoons
waiting for the breeze.

Afraid of her waves,
I fly toward the heavens
to roam with pilgrims
crying rivers and oceans.
I listen to their stories
of ruin and misfortune.
And discover boats can be
both frightened and broken.

Afraid of her waves,
I crash into the moon,
bug the man inside,
a bit of a recluse,
with questions rounding
How the ocean moves.
He bellies of an ache,
But I know it's just a bruise.

Afraid of her waves,
I spin off seven rings
slingshot out this galaxy
on black and speckled wings,
tumble through a universe
where no and everything
look so eerily the same
that my boat begins to sink.

Afraid of her waves,
I row anywhere else
until walls crumble down
until oars row themselves.
When I scale her summits,
gobbled by her swell,
I peek over my shoulder
where the sea, she's ever still.

Gasping
In your shadow,
To you, I scribble
In this little book.

Of a hornet
Whose glass wings
were shattered
by your skin
Watch him squander
atop your ivory toes,
pleading
you might hear
the clattering
of his gaunt limbs
as they crumple
and snap.

Of a vacant egg
after half its body
was swept up
by the wind
now festering
in the dried remains
of its splattered pearl.
How many dusks
And dawns
did this fledgling
spend snuggled
in your skyward arms
to wind up
a meager stain
on your chin?

Of a wilting boy
calm in clay
shaken in spirit
who wasted
too many years
praying for
your stony eyes
to fall
as his have.
Suffocating, he offers
dying souls
a fool’s paradise
that you,
Sweet Basilica,
will part your leaden lips
and breath each
And every breath
you take.

Silly, I know,
but for him
he imagines
you will.

Won't you?