Too far to see the death of dusk.
Too close
To feel the birth of dawn.
My heavier self knows itself
Far better
Than my lighter self.

Weight, in its multitudes,
Is one way of recognizing one's existence
Yet, in that burden,
So does the sorrow of its influence.
The weight of being,
The weight of loving,
Of regret,

Is both a realization and
A defining characteristic
Of one's self (if one is interested in such things)
Showing how true our wings,
Or lack thereof, are eternally clipped until
God decides whether we deserve them
                                                                     or not.

There is a name written
In the scratched,
Snow-blown glass that
They are having trouble
Melt away.

Warm rag,
Hot breath,
Shoe,
Stone and rock,
Nothing works.

Which is true
Of most things
We do, isn't it?

Things just
Don't work.

The sleet
Won't melt

Or

The sun
Won't shine

Or

The tree
Won't cover

Or, or
Or.

What is happening,
You may ask yourself?
This lack
Of sustenance?
This step back
From nature?

Then, the passage ends.
The window
It clear, revealing the edge
Of their life

They thought they had lost forever.

Be it

That,

Or this -

We're nothing

But our words.

If true (it is),

Let them be

Beyond anyone's imagination,
Beyond a before

Where no spring
Or even love,
Could hack at it.

An expression is an act
Of the stars:

For everyone to see
Without care

Of who is seeing it.

Poem, I think,
I made
It, I,

I made it!

You said
That was it.

You said
That would be it.

Hey!

Hey!

Hey! Where are you going around that corner with your silver studs and brown taps and absentee ballots and twist tie bracelets and police misfortunes and twister twisters and that half-sister your grandpa could only whisper through whiskey-truth-breath-starlight as we laugh through the magnetic starlight deep-cone in multi-colored snow cones obsessed with how our ankles look in filters not our own, and, disconnected, possibilities, possibilities up there -

And then
We have nothing to connect to

And then
We have nothing to believe in

And then
We have nothing but a reaction
Of a reaction
Of a
Reaction

Based on based

Chaos

Of an upside-down centrism

To only

               keep the balance.

All of out questions,
Their trembling hands comes out
Of its fury of

Wanting to know it all

To simply see again:

Grandma, one slipper on,
Hair a mess,
Both dogs by her lop-sided side,
Watering dead plants
In the afternoon sun.

Father, stirring grease-thick bacon
With a fork on a cast iron pan,
About to get his stomach tucked
For reasons of a few more years,
A few more days,
A few more breaths before the last.

Uncle, lost uncle, long-haired
****** willow tree legs to short and
Stumpy to reach the pavement
On the motorcycle you stole,
You couldn't afford, you borrowed,
Uncle, lost and never found Uncle.

Mother, world traveler, both eyes set
On the outstretched hand of the Southern Pacific,
The Solomon and the Coral,
Clouds your new children, roll, and rocks
Between your tanned feet,
Your sunburnt, too-tough-to-die-yet, toes.

Sister sorrow, sojourner of the mind,
Ok, see, hear this:
There will never be enough time.
North, South, West, and now the East
Is calling you again - listen;
Cypresses and Red Maples are as good
As any brother who knows your real name.


I, I,

I

Is for

Another time.