A good man
ought to be left
alone,

lest this evil world
wrap itself
around and
swallow him whole.

Blues:
singing, grumbling

vocal chords soaked in a
vat of golden whiskey, aged
like the pain he sings of.

Blues:
white, ivory

piano keys stained red
from the blood his guitar strings
cut out his fingers.

Blues:
chimes, rhymes

more like a feeling
than the color
of the cloudless sky.

The irony of
a smoking awareness stand
yielding free cupcakes.

If ever you find yourself
surrendering to the darkness,
look to me—

Listen.
I will never claim I can save you,
Lord knows I can't save myself,
but I know, for a second, our
eyes carry a comfort the dark
has no power to put down.

Listen.
There is nothing that can
divide the bloodline that streams
into our hearts when we touch
skin, when we grasp and
piddle at the wind, searching
for a safe breeze to cart us home.

Home.
Fields of lilies, dayflowers, marigolds,
things we thought were silly before.
Look at us now, prancing about
like the couples we made fun of
not so long ago—love was a virtue,
not tangible bliss. We can touch it.
It whispers of springtime.

If ever you find yourself
surrendering to the darkness,
look to me—

I will swear to whomever will
listen that I will never again
be that far behind you.

Dear.
There is always light; it is simply
a matter of opening one's eyes
and finding it.

The morning after was cold.
I shielded my eyes as the blinds cut
open; scratched glass gives
way to a beautiful summer morning.

Avoiding my pupils at all cost, you
scurry out of bed and mechanically toss
your clothes atop that slender frame
just in time to say,
I should go. I can't disagree.
I haven't the conviction.

The sores on my arm have all but blackened;
bruises beneath the surface of my
skin retell the night like a lost tape:
we came home, we made love,
we rode a euphoric steel railway in a lumpy,
benign mess of an evening.

Now it is morning. Birds are chirping,
children play games in the street.
Light shames to shine on our battered faces.

To place name on faith
is blaspheme—aside from the
faith one names oneself.

The wood-burning fire
resembles a cusp of cloud
set ablaze by faith.