I'm praying for a day
when I can breathe in the black and white solace
of a scratchy, blurry landscape devoid of streetlights.

My eyes, filled with pollen,
are closing on the shadow of an arm casted out further than my reach,
towards a hawk's silhouette amongst the limbs of a dying birch.

The grass is greening
Begins every Spring Haiku.
Daffodils bloom too.

On white walls washed primrose, candy wrapper leaves crinkle behind the dancing, cloying shadow sweets left by a breeze too quiet to remember.

Look past the prairie, now smoldering cornfield wastes of salted soil sewn from our own brows; the only prerequisite is wide-eyed naïvety to catch a glimpse of the shaky-handed painter's brushstroke of trees on a river aptly named "Skunk."

In the space between closer to and closer than home, cicada songs join an aspen's fluttering percussion to usher in the twilight and whisper good-night while flipping the switch on a childish soapbox.

On white walls washed indigo, the final murmur of a hair-raising breeze ties and pulls the puppeteer's strings on spindly trees in a dance too dark to remember.

On white walls washed primrose,
candy wrapper leaves crinkle
behind the cloying shadow sweets
left by a breeze almost too quiet to remember.



Look past the prairie,
now smoldering cornfield wastes
of salted soil sewn from our own brows;
the only prerequisite is wide-eyed naïvety
to catch a glimpse
of the shaky-handed painter's brushstroke of trees
on a river aptly named "Skunk.

In the space between closer to and closer than home,
cicada songs join an aspen’s fluttering percussion
to usher in the twilight
while flipping the switch
on a childish soapbox.



On white walls washed indigo,
the final murmur of a hair-raising breeze
ties and pulls the puppeteer's strings on spindly trees
in a dying evening’s darkening dance.

We'd run in mornings
With breath crisper than limestone.
Now her legs are stiff.

Through the autumn shine
the swallows would spiral by day
and flies died at night.

Caking towns, fields,
Sifted over a bright blank,
Spirals of chalk dust.

This morning the horizon
was shortened with fog
and then it rained.

The trees are mulched in
without low branches
and mathematically
encircle a small stage.

Knee high boulders
are scattered about,
probably serving as seats.
The benches are accents.

If they were anywhere else
I could see moss growing
on these rocks.

Dew and birdsong
are two of the words
that came to mind
when I woke up blind
to clouded sun
slivers through slits
of the parted shades
following fits
of fruitless sleep.

The wetly kissed paths
with lines of living
or withered grass
and robin cardinal
whistle, hopping
limb to branch
wondering if walking
isn't so bad though
I've never been on a plane.

I would have seen
the sunrise this morning
but clouds and trees
obscured my yawning
eyes and so did
the crows, staccatos
in skies that are really
pretty pretty anyway.

My room, painted pink
By filtered light and pollen
Breathes better than me.

Black squares pulled at the soles of my shoes, one unlaced. Brick-red fake bricks were wrapped serpentine 'round a solid cement beam, shimmeringly glazed by epoxy and daylight.

It shone white on the left half a bedraggled face. The other half smirked, sitting cross-legged under a wall-less window, eating carrot sticks with chopsticks.

There was dust in my nose, dust in my eyes, in the blank between us. How I ached to pull up my skin, burning under thousands of minute needles, and the diaphragm-tugging grip of "come closer."

Beneath a sweat-stained couch there's shame, there's spare change.
Above is cocoa butter, tangled between
their legs. A love touched tongue and thigh, and Mom's chain
of gold and something better: a cross's gleam.

When wont I stare. Waists unburdened by jean lines.
Some spare change rattles in the pockets of mine.
Biting my tongue: my canker-sore-cheek teeth grind.
Knuckles popping to match sounds of supine spines.

Black squares pulled at the soles of my shoes.
Brick-red fake bricks
wrapped serpentine around cement beams
glazed and shimmering with epoxy and daylight
s
hone white on the left half a bedraggled face.
The other half smirked,
sitting cross-legged under a wall-less window
eating carrot sticks with chopsticks.

The dust in my eyes, in the blank between us
pervaded pore and nostril,
bourgeoning the ache of a flaying respite,
with the fire of a thousand minute needles
and the diaphragm-tugging grip of "come closer."

Magnolia buds,
A false signification,
Of far away Spring.

Past the window grime,
Waking in a sickly haze,
Color all askew.

Pennies fall from trees,
Following a filtered shine,
Edging birch bark fringe.

Strong legs are shaking,
Balloons expand in my skull,
Tight fists close my lungs.

My eardrums push out,
Pressure passed around the room.
**** your wagging tongues.

Mix cobalt and grey,
Circling crows, black staccatos,
Rain streaks the canvas.

Gusts of wind whistle,
Spiraling by cracked windows,
Sprinkling rain on screens.

January tenth,
Setting sun searing the sky,
As I learn to breathe.

I remember as thought it were today, the morning we moved to Cedar Rapids. The funeral day was clear and dry: a frosty autumn morning. My mother was crying.

Behind my closed, damp eyelids, I faced a terrible, inexplicable heartache. I wanted to forget everything we did together. We used to spin pottery, him sitting behind me, guiding my childishly clumsy fingers.

I picture vividly, to the point of tasting, the cold, dry smell of wet clay, and the chalky scrape of an unglazed ***. I kept one on my desk until we got settled.

I threw it into the ravine behind the new old house when I couldn't break the frosted ground for a burial. I cried, drinking in the beauty and stillness of the grey. My breath mingled with the fog.

Smoke from a chimney,
Fields of rye, wreathed in fire,
A sky steeped in sun.

The too brief farewell,
Weeping Spring's last icy tears,
In willow hair's swing.

Hanging musty clothes,
Sudden whips tug a ribbon.
The wind bears swept cheeks.

Bobbing, sauntering,
Weighted by soft smells of dust:
Exuding bold warmth.

The sunshine will sing,
A brilliant vibration,
And bring warmth as glow.

Brown grass turns to green,
Regretting a soon past Spring,
When the ticks come back.

The evening air whips
Books filled with dog-eared pages,
Smothering candles.

Those last winter months,
In adolescent fevers,
I woke up in dreams.

Wrapped in indigo,
the pavement hummed in my ears,
and the stars sang along.

Sun sets on drab sheets.
Live, breathe the coral caress
Of a passed evening.

You are the Spring breeze,
Ice water on a hot day,
Last page of a book.

Just a feeling:
A toe dipped in the river
A reed in the brook.

Crimson lips kissing

The soft, blue velvet backdrops,

Of saccharine warmth.

How one can reason,
Bright white, grey, and powder blue,
A single line shines.

Between slits of shades,
Enough to grasp the day's feel,
Enough to break mine.

A few more pages,
Built on sinking foundations,
As I lose what's left.

Little left to do
But drink the beauty of grey
And slam cheap *****.

Shine of white sunlight,
Between electric blue shade,
All behind breath’s fog.