The wind shall lull us yet,
The flowers shall spring above us;
And those who hate forget,
And those forget who love us.

The pulse of hope shall cease,
Of joy and of regretting;
We twain shall sleep in peace,
Forgotten and forgetting.

For us no sun shall rise,
Nor wind rejoice, nor river,
Where we with fast closed eyes
Shall sleep and sleep for ever.

This could be beautiful,
If you let it,
But you strain against convention,

Time and again,
I’m left in the cold,
Along with the masses,
You bask in a warm glow,
Individuality,

I try to match you,
You’re one step ahead,
This could be beautiful,
But you never look back.

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

"we never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace" (peggy tabor millin).

watching daytime tv, oprah yelling at audience members for going through the express checkout with fifteen items,
your hand rested my thigh, keeping it, keeping me, warm.

you lifted your hand.
tiny lines left in my skin. pressed from your palm.

mirror image palmistry.

bees. and bees. and bees. bees bees bees. flee from bees. forced inside.
army of bees, trying to conquer my sandwich.
beautiful weather, but a storm is on its way. desperate housewives sky.
i miss primetime television. looking forward to fall. to routine (tv routine, at least).
missing school. missing learning.
need a job. NEED. A. JOB.
grow up.
grow.

If he should lie a-dying


I am not willing you should go
Into the earth, where Helen went;
She is awake by now, I know.
Where Cleopatra’s anklets rust
You will not lie with my consent;
And Sappho is a roving dust;
Cressid could love again; Dido,
Rotted in state, is restless still;
You leave me much against my will.

Friends . . . old friends . . .
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man tells lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before.
And so it ends
With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . .
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . .
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
The work of its hands,
Which shall be more
As he was before? . . .
What is it ends
With friends?