I am the first page of a well-loved novel,
But often the first one ignored,
Dog-eared and transparent at the corners
From the touch of one too many hands
And witness to the enterprising twist of a smile
As my readers are privileged to only pieces of me.

You, like the binding that surrounds me,
Enclose and encircle all that I am. Write a novel
Under my skin. I’ve falsified too many smiles,
Sacrificed even the best of myself for ignorant
Delusions of caressing hands
That take and abuse my corners.

The used bookstore on the corner
Of Middlebury Marbleworks, Otter Creek and window-origami —
My salvation and river-penance. Seek my story with hands
That feel to comprehend, with novel
Softness and a tenderness that ignores
My pleading glances and indecisive smiles

As you speak in hush-whispers. Smile
With your eyes as you touch my spine — corner
Me at the exit. I want you to ignore
Faults, make peace with flaws that inhabit me
Like poetry misplaced within a novel,
Or willow branches falling too low, tired hands.

I memorized the shape of your hands
The first time we danced to Chaplin’s “Smile,”
And wrote on the broadness of your shoulders a novel
Of my sins, apologies stretching to your corners
In villanelles — repeating refrains. It took all of me
To tell you what I could no longer ignore.

Because once you start to ignore
Conflictions that exist in the nerve-endings of your hands,
What you feel becomes a burden. For me,
Sand ran out of the hourglass when our smiles
Stopped touching — and at the corner
Of Maple Street and Printer’s Alley, I said goodbye, our novelty

Gone. Still, I find it hard to ignore what used to be when you smile
As you look at her, your hands on her back in the corner
Of the room. You remain my unfinished novel.

She is a great girl she is a person who I can feel the pain of the love the sickness if she tells me something I can picture it she is a good listener herself she has listened to me and one love her for it....

There's no hope in a mountain of regret
         Yet,
             we keep on climbing
    And piling it higher
                and higher
     Hoping to reach the top
                Knowing all we'll see
    Is the smoke floating
           from bridges we've burned
     And a  t r  a   i   l
                  of mistakes
   Leading to the lessons
             we thought we learned
     But regret has a funny way of sneaking up on you
            Thinking you're in the clear
     Making a run for it
Then smashing right into
       that MOUNTAIN you built out of fear
    Looking back is easier than looking ahead
           Cause there's nothing left to fear
            If you're *already dead...

Wilting and whitening
abandoned in the sun.
I thought of dying but decided
wallowing would be more fun.

I thought to cut my palms
as if opening a letter
but then decided
cutting your throat would be better.

As his feet step from the door,

His pace begins to stretch

From distance to time;

Each planted foot an hour

I don't get to see.


As his heel strikes the floor,

My brain begins the clock

From now until then;

Each hour a lifetime

I don't get to have.


Maybe just a little more;

Is that my avarice again?

Endlessly grasping

For my smaller hand

To spin back to a time

I don't get to keep.


It's not for keeping score;

Though at the start...

No matter,

That time has gone;

Poignant regrets

I don't get to think.


The years become a war

Between now and then,

Image and reality,

A mountain from a pebble

I don't get to miss.


How time flies.


As I close the door,

I lock away my thoughts;

Tuck them away

For twelve long days

Until the doorbell rings,

And there he is;

My son I get to have.

The boy ran through the fields,
His kite blazing like a comet
In the hot summer of yesterday.
Flying through the tall grass,
An open mouth, a smile held fast,
He danced, and leaped, and span away;
Safe in youth and come what may.

The day moves on.

The wind swept hard across the fields,
The kite bucking against the strain,
A twist and tear in the summer day.
The boy turned, distraught,
To watch his youth fall in thought.
He frowned, and wept, and turned away;
The kite lay broken amongst the hay.

The day moves on.

He turned to home, a sad retreat,
Replacing his steps along the path
He carved across the summer day.
A bird flies across the run,
Feathers flirting in the sun.
He turns and runs, a smile again,
And doesn’t see the hidden pain.

The day moves on.

A flying foot is sliced and pierced,
A scream of pain splits the fields
And the bird flies so fast away.
The discarded wire, the ill placed thought,
With no care for what it’s caught,
Leaves years of scars for a man to pay
And dream the loss of yesterday.