As she traced a path
in the palm of her hand
she felt sad for forgotten
     things
lost hearts, lockets
and misplaced gloves
left like dying moths
in light too rare to remember.
She picked up
where she left off
and went - with blessing -
into white winter streets
step upon step
soon forgotten.

There are many different kinds of door.
Some open, some close;
some leave you standing
outside in the cold.

There are days in life
that move so slow
and days you wish
would never go.

There are moments,
truth be told,
when your heart opens
as she closes the door.

I've decided to end my life
he wrote in a note
and pinned it to
his laid off clothes.
It isn't as bad as it sounds.
He turned up three weeks later
in Singapore,
alive and well
if somewhat confused
and dehydrated.
As for where he had been
he wouldn't say
but to those who knew him
his smile
meant that something had changed.

As snow fell upon them
they were nothing but children
hard at play
reconstructing a school-yard:

a broken window
and through it's brokenness
tiny voices, farther
and farther away.

As much as I try


I can't forget


those summer nights

when the sun shines through

on the lithograph of John

in his cave on Patmos

you should probably go outside

the park is nice this time of year

don't forget to lock up

the thief cometh

Being a poet since eleven or twelve
it's not easy slipping
into the skin of an anti-poet,
see through such eyes
the truth
in a different light,
a different beauty
as close to ugliness as your lovers breath
     is close to you;
taking up residence in a brain
emitting images
as absurd as life itself.
I have no other recourse
than the slitting of my wrists.
Whatever flows out
is what you'll read.
Not that anyone reads anymore.