Nature's weariness
Is reflected in my own
Shallow, little mind

This is my sister's
Sharpie. My use of it will
Likely start a fight.

Coffee spattered on
My notebook and my copy
Of *Book of Longing

Maybe I'll get a
Fan to put on my shoulder
Like my own parrot

The wind is trying
To pick up its pace like a
Goal longing to form

I met her again,
sleeping in her bed of rose
perals, buds, thorns

The day of her death,
I paint her face on a piece
of old lined-paper

Crown of leaves circling
the highway, their friends driving
shoulder to shoulder.

She caught my eye, I
don't know why; her everything
awoke me from sleep.

His Voice vibrates in
his bones not only to his
own ears but others'

She had a tattoo
Of dandelions on her
Pale, beautiful wrist

There were flowers in
Her hair when she first saw her.
They were baby's breath.

Sweaters may be bad for
lonesome people. Mind you, they don't
make up for a lack of

caresses. They heat the soul;
loose ones make it flirty. But no
cashmere can kiss your neck.