this gambler's arm rests
on the raised felt
beside the blue and white
poker chips
reaches in the soft light
through the rising smoke
receives wishful breath
and casts the die

A sherbet horizon
made in hunger and angst
that swallows the sun
and her breath
as she whispers soft-lipped words
that will crack the ocean

White November feeds pain
gently resting on my shoulders
melting with snowflakes
that shimmer like pennies
in the bottom of
a wishing well
with your silent heart
That I once wished would beat

beaten and emblazoned
with tears and guts
it is not a pretty place
in my head or outer space
where there is emptiness and fire
and evaporating screams
from quiet cosmonauts

He is watching the cabs gripping
A two dollar and fifty cent sandwich
in the trembling wind
It is hard to digest suicide
in little bites

the air is thinly sliced
on window panes dripping
with snowfall and fresh electricity

young ice on the
nervous water
retreating to frosted mudcracks
the streets are ******* up shadows
on the mute cement

torrential inky blackness
an anti-equinox
over cobblestone
lamp post arcs perching
on 5 lanes
streets wear orange halogen light

concrete and water
his tires scream
on asphalt
the popsicle stains
on khaki
mix with downpour
of cloudbursts

sky is lost
in a darkened prism
scarlet solstices
passed long ago

rushing riptide steely cyan white tips
on iron monsoon walls cutting through ships
as elegant as                                                 any,
but I
now
start
to
see
that
this tidal
wave sadly                                           is
crashing towards                                me

The horizon spills onto trees
where amber
turns to periwinkle
past railroad tracks
I dream of branch climbing
in sun and sky
The train’s behind schedule

You promised to guard my dreams
if I slept under a promising evergreen
or sycamore
I kept an eye open long enough
To see my dreams drip from leaves

In the distance,
a lover’s kiss on the bench
tastes of tobacco and peppermint
the cardinals and crossbills agree
that the cold blankets of winter
are a fair trade-off
for midsummer’s alfalfa and apple blossoms

Vermilion hardwood
A tea bag steeps
Against glass and ice

Dalamation Paper
Soaks up
Cracked lead
And thoughts

Yeshua and Yahweh
Christ and Father
On pages

Everything is mooncheeked
Between the lampshade
And windowsill

Sarah Wilson's blouses
and unmentionables
hang one-hundred feet
above the vacant stomachs of strays
who sniff suspicious puddles
of dumpster runoff
and rainwater

little broken suns
drip down brick mountains
beneath condemned fire escapes

it is dark with you
I squint to see supernovas
on yellow stumps

the wispy silver ripples
fall the wrong way
nothing is left but
tobacco exoskeletons

you brood against velvet arms
sinking into the chair
the stone in your chest is heavy;
immune to April plumage
spilled nectar
and the smells before rain

my shadow in  pursuit
an angelic silhouette
steadfast
but not synchronized
hiding by the penumbra
you are everything I once was
a hundredth of a second ago

soft white jewels
descend in slow motion
to the tip of my tongue
as the symphonies of winter
are orchestrated at the
hands of a heavenly composer
I bask
as my unwitting eyelashes
collect the notes