I take it all into account
The love, the pain, their lack of count.

I list the trees, the sea,
The dirt, the ***,
The He, the She,
Our ability to see...

I add, subtract and multiply
And also add the fear to die
And our tendency to cry...
The food, the bed,
The relief of paying off a debt,
The smell of books,
The first-line hooks,
The hate, the disappointment
And the joy to find an ointment...

I cry, I laugh, but mostly think
And finally dip the goblet and start to drink,
As I know that soon my mind would find another truth
And I might lose my grip and step away from
The fountain of youth.

trying to find quiet
fighting my body
battling my mind

I hurt
in ways well described
by the clocks ticking time
chasing rhymes
with false sincerity

alone
like the one emotion
you refuse to show

Oh, those winding curves and me with no brakes.
Oh, those long legs and me with no reaching arms.
Oh, those pearly whites and me with no available floss.
Oh, those voluptuous locks and me with no comb.
Oh, those big revealing eyes and me with just a windowless soul.
Oh, those velvet hands and me with not even cotton fingers.
Oh, that woman of absolute perfection and me with no way to contain her.

The black snow runs down from the rooftops;
A red finger dips into your brow;
Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room,
They are a lovers’ dying mirrors.
Heavy and torn to pieces the mind muses,
Follows the shadow in the mirror of blue snow flakes,
The cold smile of a deceased harlot.
The evening’s wind weeps in the scent of carnations.

Insincere December sun promised warmth
never given, the look of warmth cruel beauty,
the icy stare of soft hazel eyes, the cold touch
of clean hands. Light holding long nails of ice
dripped promised release too little to drink more
to move me out from under eaves by pokes and stings.
There I caught you in my arms a brief until when.
Your hand slid to my stretched finger tips and waved.
I looked you to your car off the lot up the street
you contacting even then the busy phone not meeting
eyes seeing me in bright light with no warmth.
Hands shoved in coat pockets denim hugged cold enough
to leave I stayed past your depart and why?
Something as if said the logic of December
is the folly of Spring. The art of glass imprisons
ghosts haunts possessed what is and is not real
desired both. The art of ice, the realization of thirst
cool captured drinks raised past reach.
Even then I knew, and sought you nonetheless.