Our bodies traveled slowly through the field that evening
Sun falling somewhere between rest and arrival
I bent down and picked up a dandelion
You told me that as a girl wishes came true
When you believed in something deep enough
That nature would blow the truth over our lives

Then we became adults

So I wandered through the same field years later
Finding a dandelion that without a doubt
Had your name inscribed in the stem
I looked closer and found the wishes
Engraved in each seed
Spring loaded for my breathe to take them away

Words are not weapons,
And this is not a war.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

i've been looking for poignant truths
that i can force into poetry
recently
things that will be like pebbles
into ponds of thought
concepts veiled in fact
overlooked ideas that i could
reconstruct my life
around
because poignant truths
are like raspberries
late in the season
rare sweet and sunny
only a few ever find them
i tried to scrape back the dust
and the rust
of my mind and
hoped to
discover that i had some
sort of enlightenment stored there
like pennies tucked away for
safe keeping
recently
but sometimes a glass is neither half empty
or half full

sometimes the curtains are just
blue

In my town
    The streets are paved
         With gold
              Because the rain
            Runs an infinitely unfinished race
        And the streets
   Are run thick with sky
       That swills above blocked drains
            And the street lamps
               Take a bathe in the puddles
                  And their lights
                       Unravel and swim
                     And sometimes
                  The wind gusts through
              And lacerates the
           Rivers of hoarded treasure
       So that our good fortune
           Is molten and fickle
             But somehow viscous
                  And the promises
                        Of our childhood
                            Wrinkle like
                               Aging skin

In my town
       The streets are paved with gold
           And so are the broken pieces
   Of their beer bottles.

Lay not your glass slippers
Upon the stairs
For I am too infatuated
With the stars
To chase a girl
Who runs from them.