She moved to Seattle in '99,
Poet, Lover, bar-hopper,
bought an apartment on 4th avenue.
She wrote poems for the papers.
She'd leave work early, coffee in hand,
and sit in the park to watch the leaves turn.
An auburn lake, mist creeping onto her lap,
Tartan skirt and Turtle-neck weather.
Only 22, She grew Sunflowers
and traded them for milk at the local convenience store.
She had big hopes for a job in Chicago,
but turned it down when she met the bartender
that suddenly changed her mind about bar-hopping.
They bought a little yellow house in Mirrormont,
and the leaves from the state park
drifted lazily into their yard of sunflowers,
which she no longer needed to trade for milk.
She'd moved to Seattle in '99,
as an English girl with too little time.

Pale flakes float to charcoal slate,
Tumble onto hard packed ice
that has already engulfed  the garden path.
Scratched frost, crystals with silent stinging bite.
They line the garden fence and cap the swingset.
November nights are drawing in,
it's nov. third, and the kettle sings next to a calendar of red crosses, marking the days that have passed me by and the "sleeps until" for the twins. A quiet kitchen, womb to the outside world until the door opens - a shocking birth into a white winter. November has always been a rushed month, a countdown, a month for planning, details
and not quiet stopping.
For now, I enjoy the quiet before the storm, or has the blizzard  already been and gone?
The snow will thaw, and where will we be
When all the nights of November are over.

We felt the warm sun on our shoulders,
As we climbed that grassy hill. Clambered
among sweet buttercups, swaying in a hazy september breeze. A pair of lost souls. Sinners.
Far from the kerbside violets we knew once.
The September days were long, as were our formal, tiring, careful sentiments
I didn't tell you then, that to me
You were and would forever be
a thousand rain-soaked day-kisses
A forgotten treasure, like a wild pine scent, a pink tinted perfection
To undress with my eyes
And then with trembling fingers.
To kiss amongst the dandelions and blackberries
You were a fresh fruit, then over ripened.
Started to rot under the sunny affections of various town girls. Wine warming, fire dying, stars disappearing behind pale clouds of hair attached to
a pretty face's empty head.
Now it's just me in my meadow.
The birds picked their fruit from the stem of winter, and the harvest of summer love is over.

Pale hair, pale skin
Blue eyes that hold all her secrets
Like small ponds, surrounded by
matted ferns. Dark and sticky.
I loved her once. We went to Vegas
I watched her throw back her head in joy
Her laugh wasn't perfect, but it was real
thick and warm, like honey.
If I really remember, make my mind squint back into our foggy last weeks together
I can still see the lights of the strip behind her happy face
Hair tousled and fluffy, lips pushed together to announciate t's and drawl out vowels
Her shirt stretched over her modest chest
She shopped for vintage pieces and loved vinyl
But not like I loved her. Her breath was sugar, her perfume like violets on a summer evening
She smoked marlboro but didn't care it was poisoning​ her.
Long evenings were spent in silence, the dark city lights watching as we sat on an old couch in front of a movie.
One day I came home and she was in bed with the girl from 3B
So I told her I was sorry, that I wasn't enough
I didn't want to waste her time.
That was 4 months ago. Now I live further down the street
Above the little record shop she frequents
I see her walking out with her paper bag of old 12" records, grunge rock or classical piano peices.
She was a girl that I loved once.

I gaze out of the window in the drunken hours -
a battered ford Mondeo looms out of the darkness,
unmoving on the pavement, reassuring and ghost-like.
the crackle of the polish neighbours' cheerful television set
A familiar scene is illuminated by the streetlight's yellow glow.
An ashtray sits on the windowsill of the record shop
lace curtains billow in the night breeze
Red wine in a mug, giggles and faint music
Creaking swings in the city park
and window lights dotted few and far between.
the dirt of my windowbox smells rich and dark
and my wilted sunflowers have closed up for the night.

Dust Devils in between the sheets
Moth smell, dreamlike
A small and friendly memory
Let the morning sun pour in
Musted air and brown teakwood
Dusty sun in dusty eyes

Smooth the cotton, pale and sweet
Lace touch, fresh smell
Crinkled to infinity
Dust devils in their linen paradise

hot cracked earth, fierce cigarette
dark, dark hair on fired sand.
subtle gasp,  failure to grasp
my remaining chords of sanity
I give myself to rock and roll!

kisses on my wind scorched lips,
whisky tainted,
orange dusted,
belonging to my delirium.
darkness in the cosmic pit
sinking in these star-crossed dunes
Campfire burns, hot earth churns,
A thousand whispered promises.

hot red wind and night-time fire
the quiet strum of your guitar
vultures circle, dry and wet,
I spend my love on these bone sands
a sweet Nevadan promise land

love burns gold, sunray's glow
circles in the hot dry earth
breath of wind, a calming buzz
hisses near, promise of venom
a poison bite, bloodless flow
I warm myself in desert sun
and **** that perfect passion man.

Photographs blown in Saharan breeze
faded, dusty memories
Egyptian particles of stone
Hazy air and moonlight touch
Skull runs dry, rusted love
A thousand whispered promises.

A one night show, cheap liquor and ***
breath of fierce cigarette
sand in eyes, night burns hot
moon rises on tides the sea forgot
Dried up dreams and lost forever
A sweet Nevadan promise land

Deep in the heart of the silent backwoods
Heart racing, palms glazed silver with sweat, I walk.
I walk alone.
Feet crunching earth,
The rich, bitter scent of wet moss in October
snakes into my nostrils,
A dark and cautious entity, filling my head with whimsical fancies.
I drink it in, like a beggar nursing his Absinthe
Allowing the night air to probe my nose and mouth.
A twig snaps.
Am I Alone?
But I'm protected by the night, the quiet, charming night,
And now I'm spinning, laughing, drunk on the air!
These backwoods are full of midnight musings, strange faces and all the colors of faerie
Still I walk and the woods are silent.
Neither cricket's whisper nor owl's hoot can penetrate the scream of this total silence
The air shifts, heavy with a slick metallic presence. Goosebumps and a muffled whimper.
I don't mind that I'm not alone.