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

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

count the ducks
on the water
gentle lines
lain silver
discarded
in their wake

there was a snowstorm promised
on the morning news
and as i tossed old clothes
into the garbage
i thought of a bird
i saw once
dark feet curved around
the handle of a shopping cart
he spread his wings
in the limp winter sunlight
and cried one harsh note

show me the way
your words fall
with the flutter
the wind stirs
in a blooming tree

i dreamed
of the ocean again
last night
silver lined
the water and
the hanging
shadows of the gulls
the waves
curling like fingers
against the sand

i helped you cut
your hair the night before
music was playing and
none of your windows
had curtains
they let in the timid air
unhindered
your hair fell
stiff and silver
little needles piled
in the bathroom sink

your hands in
the breathing quiet

darkness softens
grey into
the hidden corners

the new morning rises
pale and
soft bellied

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

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

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

the night sits cold and crackling
smoke stirs around the edges
anonymous burn
there are certain things
that i remember
my father on some nights
would sit outside
our front door
watching a storm pass
the lit tip of
his cigarette
burning orange against
a ruse of broken glass