new oranges wait
unpeeled
in an open basket

his mother
moves
in the half-light

fingers working
-small reflections
in the early hours

morning shadows
caught
like words
between us

1.
in summer
we sit in the branches

picking leaves
from the strands
of our hair
we break the stems
and touch
the bleeding tips
to our tongues

2.
quietly
the fruit falls

aging in the soft
shoulder of the ground

flies gather
eating life
before the ending day

3.
summer fails
gathers
and fails again

new grass
grows
crowded against
the wooden fence

my mother
kills the fig tree

branches fall
-old weight breaking
into waiting hands

the sun
warms
an empty space

4.
morning begins
with the ache
of a new flower

shadows move
liquid beneath
the shifting leaves

sunlight through
green paper

summer ages with
a sudden hour
thin and
sun-softened

words follow
like leaves
each their own
separate turning

my sister tells me
what i don't remember

morning softens
bleeding into
a new light

and she begins
again

night in the long hours
quiet like the inside
of a suitcase

somewhere
a fire is burning

darkness moves
a breath against
the heavy wall
blind and
pillow soft

it rained
sometime
in the passing night

leaves rustle
wet shadows taken
by a sudden current

sleep
follows me
like a footstep

morning curls
heavy in
the shadows
of the grass

the sun
burning on
his narrow back

he feels the weight
of his sweat growing

bruises along
the inner folds
of his shirt

flowers
yellowing in
the late afternoon
touch the inside
of his wrist

sunlight breathes
through the grass
like a distant voice

the lights move
yellow along
the curves
of your face

soft voices
wait
in the rising
fall of your chest

briefly our shoulders
touch

in sleep
your hand
flutters like
a dying bird

there's a beauty in
her angled shoulders

between the shadows meeting
beneath the curve
of her *******

unbroken hours
forgotten in
the narrow dark

silence moves
along the small
parts of her hands

your hands in
the breathing quiet

darkness softens
grey into
the hidden corners

the new morning rises
pale and
soft bellied

muted sunlight
grey against
the sleeping grass

voices falter
startled by
a new word

disappointed,
the rain bends
with a heavy breath

morning fades
into early afternoon

you're asleep
in the next room
one hand folded over,
fingers touching
the inside
of your hidden palm

somewhere
a voice laughs
spilling life into
the restless sun

the flowers
that your mother gave me
wilting on the corner table

small
rustle in the mid-hour

she moves
in steady comfort

bare shoulder to
restless sun

he left again
in the early morning

sunlight touches
silver through
the heavy blinds

i clean the dishes from
the kitchen table

new shadows settle
restless bruises against
the curve of my hand

summer grass folded
like faded paper
under the heavy frost

your cat sitting
at the window
watching the winter birds

cold water
brushes
the back of my hand

slowly like
a thought turning
it begins to rain

an empty morning

your pillow
how you left it
curled under
on the edge

i remind myself
to think of you
in the new silence

the cat watching
with the small
movements
of a ghost

together
we move through
the tall pines

he tells me
of the bad days
his words reaching
through the light
of an early autumn

there is a need here
in the pale shadows

the new morning
rots like an open fruit

morning begins
to soften
outside

i wait for you
cold hands
light gathering
with the dust
of the growing hours

there is nothing in me
that is not already soft
and brittle

feel the leaves slip
on the pavement
touching new words with
a covered breath

midnight buries
a half moon

below her
the sidewalk seems
to shimmer in
the dim light

voices meet
hand to
awkward hand

she hesitates
lingering to watch
the snow fall

the smell of smoke drifts
from the burning mountains

your breath moving
the strands of my hair

new light touches
the corner
of the bedside table
and tells me
what i don't remember

july again
i've forgotten
the way a warm hand
feels against
the back of my neck

summer
speaks with
a waning breath

the last hour
goes by
slowly

he writes
of the sun shifting
through the narrow grass
the curve of her body
moving with the sound
of a sigh

a cold rain gathers
bringing night
to the waking room

the pale shadows
on the table
hold the movement
of his empty hand

the windows open
to the sound of rain

i hear your voice echo
in the other room

morning begins
with a muted fire

summer lowers
a lingering fire
onto the shoulders
of your rising breath

maybe it's too early
to say
that i don't miss you

a new promise gathers
in the aging west
and i grow tired
of its changing face

i still try
to forget
your name
sometimes

leaves scatter
in the waking night
and wait
for the summer
rain to die

rain again tonight.
light scatters
on the  pavement
like glass

i remember
the broad
curve of the river
keeping time
with the windows
of the train

i watched you
watch the water pass,
one palm curled
around the shadow
of your wrist

i was waiting then, too

you're too
far from me tonight
i watch
a cat walk
a path between
the shifting trees
long tail curling
a question
into the guiding night

snow settles over
the stirring houses

soon
life will pass
from the windows
into the corners
of the street

a hand waits
in the growing cold
blind palm holding
the light
of the setting moon

the mountains
are growing
green again

i know the bend
of your hand now
daylight gathers
into a slow burn
and i am not ready
for sleep

summer pulls
the curling
length
of her hair

leaves whisper
with a blossomed
voice

tonight the moon
has a fingernail's
edge

night answers
in the waning hours

trees bend
whispered reflections
onto the pattern
of my falling steps

i can feel
the weight
of you

in the growing summer
rain follows
the slow
rustle of
the setting day

i miss the silence
of your empty
hand

you drive
your face breathing
a white
light into the dark

the snow
falling like ash
on the road

summer
turns with
the aging leaves

she carries
her days
on the bend
of her shoulder

the drifting
weight of the morning
curls with the smoke
of her cigarette

winter
follows me
here

under
the creeping snow
shadows move
with the sound
of yellowed leaves

sometimes
i remember you
in the restless hours
when the night follows
the waking quiet
and the summer
is too slow
to come

early dawn
fades into grey

i carried your name
into the pale
winter morning

the sound
of the waking birds
touches skin
to skin

the night falls
in silence

time
fades the
summer grass

and i count
each
stepping breath
of your heart

i keep
a light on
for you
quiet voices
follow
each nodding
turn
of an hour

the night
passes cold
between
the ache
of my fingers

we talk in
half-hearted courtesies
it's hard to mention
the sun as
it settles
like a child into
the bruised
line of the horizon

our voices carrying
with the sound
of the ocean's
constant turning

morning mixes
with the smell
of the dying roses
you tell me
that God
is a father to
the fatherless and i
say nothing
watching the shape
of the leaves
drowning line
into line
against the changes
wavering in the strings
of autumn

the smoke rose
curling silver
your fingers
move a circle
from your eyes
to the burning
point of your
cigarette

somewhere
her silence folds
around the touch
of an ending
sigh

hand falling into
empty hand

i can feel
the turn
of your season
fading

the dull
gathering
of the rain
gives weight
to the bend
of new leaves

he eats an orange
every night
before going
to bed

early morning
fades into
the stagnant
ache of summer
he waits

the pitted reflection
of the kitchen window
parts like skin
along the edge
of his knife

the waves ebb and
turn like the shadows
hidden in the folds
of a curtain
there is morning somewhere
behind the fog

morning again
my shoes
are still wet
from the rain
last night

i search
with small fingers
for the beginning
push of the light
the smell of oranges
still lingers on my pillow

it was in the hours
between evening and
the fading warmth
of late afternoon
she could feel the changes
of the season
in the way the rain
fell in short,
whispered breaths
against her window

there are no hands
to hold
the creeping silence
the yellow light
of the lamp
nodding an apology
into the strands
of her hair

when did it change-
the twisting
hurry of the snow?
water is pooling
in the grass and
on the dimpled
sidewalk
bleeding light
like an open sore

we move in silence
the yellowing
age of the roses
continues with the tide

the lights of the houses gathered below us as if          
the stars had settled, dirtied and yellowed on the ground
too heavy now to be anything but content
(as you drove I told you- oh god I don't remember now-
maybe something stupid like how I could never
understand why my mom straightened her hair
or tried so hard to fit in and you said nothing)

a memory came back to me then.
(a band trip-long ago now-waiting outside the buses
"Hey, you'd appreciate this!" the blonde kid grabs my shoulder
and points to the sky with a grin, "Look at the clouds."
they looked flat and crisp and clean – like crackers)

(i watched the world spin by
through cloudy, water-spattered glass
yellow then brown then grey
remembering the clumps of sunflowers
growing idle by the freeway)