You drew me out
when you called my name
then you drew me in,
into your flame.
I was just looking
for a place that's warm.
You gave me that,
and you gave me more.

The light on your face,
snow in my hair,
emeralds in your eyes,
you walked down the stairs
into my arms
where you belonged
both then and now
and ever long.

For nothing now can ever
come to any good -
Words I lifted off the page,
popped in my mouth and
swished around til it all
made sense to me.

That line, by itself,
hanging at the end of
the stanza, now hanging
off the tip of my twisted tongue.
It touched me somehow, someplace,
by way of some terrible twist of fate.

W.H. Auden, it is
the end of autumn and I
ask you how you handle death.
For, though I write, a poem
does not suffice. Not me.
I am, by these falling leaves,
reminded of their faces and
when they touch the ground
I look down and weep.

Love, the sweet voice
heard in the doorway,
and the way it
rouses the ear.
Do get up and greet it,
you fool, before
it disappears.

Don't let anyone
try to tell you
how to live.
The moment you
do, that's when
you start dyin'.

I get up out of my lazy chair
daydream to stare out the window
and I'm looking for someone to dance with me.

I envision little footprints in snow,
two pairs pointed at one another,
made one with a cold kiss and
who'll ask me for my coat?

You'll say I'm drunk and ought to get some sleep. I'll say I'm happy and not afraid of winter. Now let's meet outside while my bones are still warm.

sky licked by flame
branches become fingers feeling
for the throat of the night
     clouds cast over crescent moon
the cloth concealing the blade
hanging in suspense while
     shadows make their way
up vacant streets toward
hollow voices echoing from
     inside the corner house
where nothing's as it seems
where children wake from
fever dreams to piercing screams
     and darkness