Its hard to move forward
When i dont know
Where forward is

So worried
Always
That i may misplace a step
Sometimes
I forget to take one

Two minutes to midnight.
All my windows open to the gentle
Scents of Summer, and the invation
Of winged insects drawn

Towards the single candle
On my living room glass table.
It's as if a pine stripper is dancing
On my lawn,

All perfume and movements that
Sound like breeze and innocent
Lust.
I want to make love to the outside.

Be inside it. Give something back to
These two magical months between
Winters, and at the same time
Worship; move with tears in my eyes

Within optimal actual love.
I smell green; hear dark blue; look
Into the sunset iris of night time
Posing as evening,

And pull words like aces out of my
Worn poetic sleeves, but this is my
Winter coat, and all I can think of is
Snow creaking like doomed souls under

The heel of Anti-Summer Herself.
Meanwhile, Odin and Buddah swing
From a tree in my garden.
All battle muscle and fat carelessness,

And I look out at them chatting
Like little kids on a playground, about
Everything and nothing, and how that's
All there is.

Their words sing to my ears like the
Up-beat hummingbird pulse
Of a newborn's heart, to a young mother's
Own.

Up here it is more temporary; the
Sun has already turned.
In six months, the only light will be
That of the snow piercing through the
Darkness of a
23 hour night.

Words such as swimming and
Barbecue have the same taste as the
Cardboard of the box you are provided
With when being told to
Clear out your desk immediately.
And the winds pick up from

Closer to north with promises of
Ice cold rain in them.
Then just ice.
I fear not bullet nor blade, but look
Down and shiver at the thought of having
A brief, bad summer

Such as this.
I spent a week on Helene's parents'
Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating
Cod still wet with salt water, but yet;
The skies were grey; the breezes
Ungentle; unsoothing.

But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites
Where the ground still
Smells of sacrificial blood and
Mead, and there
I shrugged the disappointment off as I
Closed my eyes and imagined paddle

Sounds and Norse grunts from a
Thousand years ago; rugged
Travellers returning after months at sea
Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home.
Thinking nothing at all
Of the weather.

At times, your flotsom and jetsom gets to me.
Mostly, I think you're beautiful.

At times, I look at you and want to ask,
"Why are you in a frantic, frothing frenzy?"

At times, I exclaim, "Really? Come on! I mean, come on! How bad is it, really?"...

At times, you storm away.

At times, I wonder if you are worth the aggrivation.

At times, I don't think I deserve you.

guitar's
wailing tonight;
long, slow, melancholy.
The only way he knows to say
goodbye