She Sleeps
in a bed
of second hand
dreams.

surrounded by

raggedy Anne
romances
of no
depth or
consequence.

she is
a poem with
no ending
clouds with
no sky.



she sits

waiting for

heaven or hell

to finally

be done

with her.



maybe
someday
love will
give it
back.

the
key.

to the
place she
locks
all of her
secrets,

and hides

all of

her heart.

but not
now,

her broken
heart stands
alone,

the reaper.

watching,

while she
sits still


offering
only gentle
whispers.

of lonely

one way
conversations,

with empty

bottles

of wine

tonight.

(after Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Evening)

The light is everything;
it makes a godly sound

spilling through
the locust grove,

washing over
uncut grass,

negating
shadows,

baptizing husband
and wife in oblivion.

Melancholy blinks
like the black eye
of a whippoorwill.

Who catches the
notes of its song?

Only the dog.

Dusk, patient
as a chrysalis.

They can’t hear
the transmutation
yet, but they will.

I don’t look different, i just look at you differently

i guess
i’ll love you
the way the sun
loves the moon
and you
will love me
the way the grass
loves the trees
perfectly in synch
but just a little too different
to ever truly
be.