Searching for Galileo,
    the race to be first home,

In a sea of patients
    we climb the probability tree,
    walk upon the shore collecting
      memory shells,

We win the little wars,
     lose the big fight,

These windows are breathing apparatus,
     this ceiling, a blur of tungsten sky,
     rain, tears, weep,

To rest near to you,
     the technicolor sleep,
     and I died with you,

All farewells are sudden.

Compare me to her pretty mind.
It's like looking into a foggy mirror,
where the only things I see
are the parts you feel don't need improvement.

Compare me to her pretty mind.
Cut me open and rearrange my insides
so that I fit your better mold.

Compare me to her pretty mind.
So the only thoughts that consume me
are "how do I become better than her?"

Compare me to her pretty mind.
Tell me that I need to be strong in who I am,
then list me the reasons as to why
I won't measure up to your relentless expectations.

Compare me to her pretty mind.
Push me over the edge
and assume I'll sit quietly
like your pretty mold.

Compare me to her pretty mind.
So that when the day is done,
and I lay awake at night,
I know my best will never be enough to please you

calm seas, restless lungs

breathe it in
the mournful breath is out there

skin is numb

the words are too

holding still
hidden under the tongue

holding
hidden

one more dies before he gets there
(what did the letter say...?)

holding
hidden

what did it say...?

On earth, in air, on water,
light is its own essence--
an enchanted dance,
a harmony of rhyme
in quick pearling as on
the surface of a pool ;
Or, it’s slow, expanding
as if some obstacle is in
the way.

Beyond sight’s reach,
light glides, swan-like
or blinks, star-like or
dapples uncertain between
sun and shadow.

A match darts it’s first
white flame, then flickers.
Splashing sparks may
tumble over pebbles or
moon repeat itself
a thousand times.
A translucent cascade
of bright snow illuminates
a winter field ; the gentle
glow of a candle flame
warms the heart.

Even what seems
forever dark as
midnight’s blackest
mood is not immune
to opening to the glory
of light.

-

weeks after he ascended
from his fallen carcass—

troops vacated what once
was good ground,

rains washed in mud
to refill the holes,

the scent of honeysuckle
once again became
intrusive,

birds of prey returned
to their perches-

watching as

squirrels and rabbits
went about
their collections,

and the veil of silent
winds once again
descended.

after decades passed
through the footfalls
of morning strolls
between healing
vegetation and
eroding
rock—

a park had completed
formation about the
flanks of his bones ...


s jones
2020


.

he expertly constructs
intricate structures and framework
laying the foundations on clouds
(the murky clouds of "what if")
he builds story upon story
erecting a crystal fortress
topping the tallest spires with mirrors
so the whole world will see
how completely right he is

as he steps back to admire his work
he notices the smallest of cracks
in the keystone above the golden arch
that branches as it advances
ripping through the glass castle
which crackles from threshold to roof
in an inherent and utter collapse
that leaves a glimmering shattered heap
of imagined debris at his nauseated feet