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

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

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 hand rests
on the edge
of the kitchen table
there is no
silence here
only the light fading
like the slow
leaking of breath

an apple sits
on the counter
soft lines curving
into the white
shadow of the wall
we take the curtain
turning like a page
in restless sleep
and the sound
of the rain
murmurs cold against
the window

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

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

discarded
for the thought
of a newer bud
the leaves spend
their freedom in
idle ways

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

there were petals clinging
to the bottoms of my shoes
crushed, still white and oblivious

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

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

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

i love you
its so easy to repeat
old mistakes

accross the street
a train rumbles
much too late at night
and gives me strange dreams

you left
in a hurry today
the shirt you wore to bed
the night before lay
crumpled on the floor
holding your warmth
long after you had gone

the night here is quiet
save for my feet shuffling
collecting water like dust
love yields in a strange way
i note this as i walk
through wet grass
thinking of you with a mild ache

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.

your watch sits on the dresser
soft ticking, the dark
collects like rags in the corners
eaten away by the early morning
there are so many
things that are too easy to say
count them on the ceiling
thin and magazine innocent
and i know what you'd say
to my cold fingers reaching
towards the tiny folds

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

January and it's spring already
clouds have drifted
from the mountains
the sky mocks
with clear eyes
and you say
that we're in this
together
like a pair
of ungloved hands

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

in sleep
your hand fell
heavy and warm
on my bare hip

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

your words were folded and
secret as we walked
i remember the leaves
on the path
each as thin
as an unsent letter
they rustled under
but only lost
the smallest pieces

there's a difference
between the shape
of your hand clutched
around the base
of your tall glass
and the way
the light through the window
falls beside your feet
as thin and as innocent
as spilled milk

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 is nothing left
but the way
snow crouches only
where the shadows touch
white flowers blossom
too sweet on the tips
of branches
idle comfort given
on loose threads

summer months
the sun fades
with a tattered edge
somewhere my sister
listens to the fold and
sway of the tide
and a gull flies
its short span casting
crooked shadows
on the sand

what can i tell you
your hand remembers
the way the flowers
reached upwards
aching like cups

carefully he took a bowl
from the top shelf
faded yellow porcelain
reflecting the patterns
of the flowers by
the windowsill

and i spent some time remembering
the way your fingers met
the soft beginnings of your palm
i'm not much better
than the words echoed
on a night with the stars
scattered like birdseed

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

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

raindrops gather
in the open palm
of a fallen leaf

the mountains rust
as the year grows older
and i've lost most of the sweaters
that my grandfather gave me
there's a spot that hurts to the whole of me
at a touch

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."

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

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

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 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

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

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)

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

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

early dawn
fades into grey

i carried your name
into the pale
winter morning

the sound
of the waking birds
touches skin
to skin

another day
without you
the tepid summer wind
drifts in through my open window
and blows your memory onto the floor

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

(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 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