Silence, there, where the snow has crystallized,
closing the world to footsteps, tyres on tarmac
flap of towel or sheet on washing line
A sad refrain whispering in the rain’s furtive whine
Once-green spaces magically transformed,
Strange silhouettes, the once familiar trees
Now stand mute sentry in swift polar’d grounds
Where the shining dead men’s diamonds lie scattered all around
In a dark, unsheltered, corner of the park
Where rhododendrons threw squat shadows on the ground
The dead man lay, seeing nothing now through sleet swept eyes
In death he claimed the dead men’s diamonds as a shroud
‘Though his pockets were empty,
His final meal, not the prisoner’s extravagant last request
But a single cup of tea, over-brewed
And a single sandwich, unappetizing, far from fresh
His name to be just a memory on some faded certificate
The frost his shroud, a kindness done by death
For those who his body found
There, where the dead men’s diamonds lie
strewn in derision by skeletal jeweler’s fingers of frost upon the unyielding ground

trying desperately to carve a place
out for you;                         snug
into the right side of my heart
as if you hadn't taken residence
up there so many years ago.

our memories slip
through my
fingers -
and i want my stupid, old
brain to keep them closer.

i'm torturing myself
wondering if i could
still make you smile
that soft sharp grin
kind of look
that seeps into
your tone,
indulgent and
warm and safe
all-over.

and how awful am i,
to have lived all this time
as if i could always find you
once more.

i want to call you back
so i can hear your voice again
and i swear i'll never listen
to another sound.

       please don't go.
for all i've wanted is to hold your hand.
you look so lovely in any color, i could
lose myself in your eyes if only you
turn around this
one time.

please god.
make me a necromancer.
i'll live and sleep in the dirt
wearing blood and soot as gloves,
ear-to-the-ground
forever listening
for that pin to drop:
spades
on hand for
the moment
your fingers stretch
out to seek mine;

i'll catch them this time.
         in catacombs
                       or in polished
                              american cemeteries:

                         i'll wait for
                         you.

I am not heartbroken
by your lack of faith,
but by your denial
of what we held sacred.

There is in sadness a sense of Fall, of spacious leprosy where crippled thought like the outmoded nymph dies behind each tree, and childlike peeks out to let at least childhood disbelieve in its unhappy end.
     There is in sadness, a branch that holds the once-upons, the happily-evers, and the destined-to-bes, a sweet find for all in grief.  Each stem lends momentum to their pluckings.
          There is in sadness, a young man who cherishes dead leaves.  He lately held waxen happiness and knew this as his permanence.

the screech of brakes
from the garbage truck
the dogs of destiny snapping
at your heels
and the passionate embrace
from endless night,
misery follows you down
springwood avenue
with those nightmares
that can't
sleep
the visions riot in your head

the light of the evening star is fading
The songbird sits on a thin branch

where does the child of countless dreams run to?

fog on window panes blurs
the trees and faint sunlight
claws streaks down the
dilapidated couch where you
became a fixture of worship:
nights spent praying on knees
bruising for forgiveness. now
home is the potted plant
poking its head up towards
the sun; greeting him with
grace

the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage

to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.

february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.

we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.

There were times
that I floated; almost flew.
The wind tasted fresh,
as the clouds hissed by.
My sweat kissed the
hot sidewalk below.
I dunked any
basketball that
I could palm.
Seventeen years old,
and a sanguine grin
the powerful legs,
and a 
skinny frame.
Life was mine, and I
knew it.
I spent more time in
the air than I 
did on the concrete.
The sky and
tree lines were
my home.
I was Icarus and a hawk
soaring above the
common folks.
Now, I never leave
the ground.