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

afternoon light flickers
through the curtains
like a moth
her fingers brush
the lined edge
of a plate
as the sink fills
with water

the sound of paper, displaced
shifts behind her
she counts
the careful steps
the cat takes
across the table

outside the roses
trace their shadows
across the lawn

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 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 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

night answers
in the waning hours

trees bend
whispered reflections
onto the pattern
of my falling steps

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

1
the door clasps
dry whispers
echo down
the dusty dark
2
the moon
has a fingernail's edge
my neighbor sings a song
to his wife
mouth full of cotton
3
the lightswitch
clicks upwards
the light above hesitates
4
i've forgotten
how lovely
my cats are

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

the kitten
trying to distill
the pain of new teeth
against a crumpled edge
of white paper

the careful clasp
of the door going
into the doorframe
he shuffles through
clutter and scattered paper
searching for car keys

muffled words drifting
by a closed window
with the brittle arms
of a newly fallen leaf
"Jenny, Jenny I'm through..."

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)

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

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

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

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

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

the tulips outside
are growing
i remember
our feet
tangled in the grass
the soft curve
of your lips
against the palm
of my hand
we watched
the river together
the small circles
of our movement
reflected in the passing
threads of the water

there's a river that
swells and declines with
the pull of the seasons
in the warmer months
the cows from the meat farm
push through the old wire fence
to drink the water from
the other bank

water ripples with
the slow threads of current
a fish twines
through the long weeds
grey like the pebbles taken
from the flux of the river shore

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

the dogwood trees
are blooming
their petals
tipped in the silver
of the morning
rain

i'm beginning to like
the quiet again
the shifting hands
of the clock
brushing hours
against my shoulder

(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)

the leaves fall
like crumpled
paper birds
early shadows
fold and
unfold with
the upturned
pulse of the trees

by tomorrow
the passing
rush of the geese
will have forgotten
our separate hands
the sound
of our footsteps
falling in and
out of time

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

chunks of ***** snow
lie on the side of the road
like roadkill
there are no more
geese in the duck pond
the water lies still
foggy mirror
reflecting the trees
in dull regard

raindrops gather
in the open palm
of a fallen leaf

old leaves
follow
the curve
of the water
and now
that the rain
has ended
the trees bend
their branches,
heavy with the push
of the fading season,
towards the shadows growing
in the long
fingers of the grass

you left
the window open
the smell of
the rose bushes
shifts with a breath
across the pages
of an open book

dull pink rises
over the growing
weight
of the houses

between
the quiet hours
the morning glories
close their petals
against the evening
rain

there is a red sun
setting in the mountains
i remembered your letter
on the kitchen table
unraveling the unsteady pulse
of your memory
into the half light

where are the early mornings?
the music playing
quietly as the pale
warmth of the ocean
passes like a mirror
beside the windows
of my car

we each keep sending
our own regrets

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)

somehow the seasons
settle
i face the distant
end of the horizon
the sun
passes cold
along the skin
of my back
i am lonely here
i press my toes
against the rising
push of the ground
freedom brushes
bare my ankles
and moves along

you buried the dead bird
we found at the bottom
of the ditch near your house
pine needles rested over
the small grey mound
slender and burnt orange
you taught me quietly
about ghosts as i
crouched on the ground
making crisp snapping sounds
with the needles gathered
in my hands

fog again this morning
beside the road
a deer guides
a narrow path
to the nearby woods
the air stretched
to a brittle edge

these dandelions come too late
i've already forgotten
our timid hands
the quiet rustle
of young leaves
the sun nodding
through branches
creating shadow
upon shadow
on the hiding grass

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

the wind picked pace
she could feel the sound
of the music, very
distant now
he was telling her
about his sister
fingers sliding
through her hair
like water
saying, "You remind me,"
"You remind me."

it was too early
for spring
bare branches
stir with a sudden
turn of crooked fingers
as a car passes,
shedding light
on broken glass

last night she dreamed
of lions

some nights i
used to be very small
the trees would make
fickle shapes
squirming against
my window
as my mother and
her friends would chatter
loud and hollow
like the falling
of a plastic cup

the sound
of oncoming rain
through an open window
somewhere laughter spills
like marbles

there was still frost
on my car when i left
i know you disapprove
of the way i drink my coffee
the little things we say
between silences stretched
like a string from hand to hand
i drink my coffee much too sweet
sugar neutralizes the bitter taste
and you wonder
where the point is

there is a red sun
setting in the mountains
i remembered your letter
on the kitchen table
unraveling the unsteady pulse
of your memory
into the half light

where are the early mornings?
the music playing
quietly as the pale
warmth of the ocean
passes like a mirror
beside the windows
of my car

we each keep sending
our own regrets

i love you
its so easy to repeat
old mistakes

the day ended the way it began
snow fell in a lazy swarm
and i remembered how in the summer
you always smelled like suntan lotion and soap
i think
i understood this all at one point
you said you loved me for the first time
in a hotel room on the bay
the rain whispered frantically as you kissed me
i wasn't ready
i was never ready

do you remember
that couch you used to have?
sturdy, it was
worn colorless and
frayed just around the edges
your hand i remember
hooked around its arm
idly playing with the soft,
loose threads as we talked oblivious,
the night pressing its
blank face against the window.

i can feel
the turn
of your season
fading

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

her eyes shining, hooded with pride
she says
pick it out with the rot
the water breathes
long sighs against the sand
don't you miss this?
the buzzing pulse of the cicadas
as she says
"I'm so abused. Neglected."

summer pulls
the curling
length
of her hair

leaves whisper
with a blossomed
voice

tonight the moon
has a fingernail's
edge

the sky was a flat metal
he could smell the dusky
smell of a coat discarded,
damp and full of dust,
on a bench as he passed.
and, even now, as
the wind pulled the hands
of his scarf around
in frantic circles
he thought of the quick flick
of her hand as she tossed
a cigarette, half-burned and
orange with inward fire
onto the sidewalk

there's a silence
in the hours
of the first stirring
between the breaking
of light through
brittle air
and the pale stretch
of shadow

you traced your own line
where the light dips
and pools in the hollow
of my collarbone
with the narrow tip
of a finger
i take a page
pure in the first fold
and open receptive