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

she is beautiful
he tells
the shifting breath
of the open curtain

the thread of
summer
pulls
carrying the sleep
of the long grass

i found your footprints
by the lake
where the sand
met the lazy
tongue of the water

i wanted to tell you
about the oranges
on the counter
the soft curl
of their peels
growing dimmer
in the fading light

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

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

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

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

the window is open
to the sound
of the water
sighing

the light
from the waning
moon
speaks softly
to the corner table

you left
a glass by
the kitchen sink
pale pink tracing
the line
where your lips
had been

the night falls
in silence

time
fades the
summer grass

and i count
each
stepping breath
of your heart

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

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 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

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

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

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

winter
follows me
here

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

from where she slept
one hand dangling, sleep numb
curved like a fish
shadows pooled in her palm
like a bruise

night answers
in the waning hours

trees bend
whispered reflections
onto the pattern
of my falling steps

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

i can feel
the weight
of you

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

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

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

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

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

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

i still try
to forget
your name
sometimes

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

small
rustle in the mid-hour

she moves
in steady comfort

bare shoulder to
restless sun

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

there was an answer
in the way
the trees pass
pressing budding branches
against the silvering
pull of the sky

i think of the silence waiting
in an empty room
the light peeling
like skin as the day fades
spreading shadow and
the smell of dust
along the growing edges
of the carpet

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 windows open
to the sound of rain

i hear your voice echo
in the other room

morning begins
with a muted fire

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

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

i can feel
the turn
of your season
fading

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

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

soft heels answer
on the sidewalk
i watch the lines
of her hips move
against the shadowed
fabric of her skirt
there's not enough
distance in the brittle
push of early autumn
it shifts the naked
rest of browning leaves
and loves no one

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

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

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

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

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

muted sunlight
grey against
the sleeping grass

voices falter
startled by
a new word

disappointed,
the rain bends
with a heavy breath

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

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

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

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

it comes in the passing
of two bodies meeting
shoulder to elbow
on an armrest
in a movie theater
soft light tracing
lines around the bend
and curve of an arm
it comes with the linking
of words like fingers held
over the shifting rise
and fall of a sigh

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..."