Is it you--
are you the rain
that my children
dance in?
Are you the
harvester of long
grains and seeds
that the lone bird
feeds on?

To know you
is to know for an
eternity.
It is you,
the hand of death,
the whisperer of
rustling motions,
who knows of both
the grandest scope
and of who I am
in my smallest ways.

Did she caress my head
Did she smile
Was I drunk and wrong instead
Did I imagine what was said?

Did she touch my hand
Did she look with some desire
Was there longing in her eyes
I am uncertain with goodbyes

As she left I question
Was it kindness was it care
was it gentle friendship
That was there?

Was it *** was it lust
Was it baseless short desire
That plays me to the fire?

Was it movement without meaning
Was it apathetic leaning
Absentminded action that was lacking in all feeling?

I don't know
I don't know
But I wonder while I wander
Through my memories and ponder
Did she? Was she? Will she?
Be someone I should pursue?

I don't know,
Do you?

Fifteen years since I was safe.
Six years since I had a peace of mind.
One year, six months since our first kiss.
One year since our last.
Ten months since I last felt your touch.
Eight months since we had a conversation.
Seven months, five days since were were together.
Two months since it rained.
Two weeks since I last cried.

Three seconds since I last thought of you.

*My memory is my greatest enemy.

24 hours a day for the rest of our time together,
we'll walk with glutton in our shoes
walking with weight on our backs
covering distances only known in novels.

They'll get us you know,
those men selling cigarettes out of
office blocks, down that block there-
it's 62nd street and they never clock off.

What windows see aren't what we see.
Windows hear and feel and
we see and never heal;
we hold wounds like flowers bought
in hospital foyers, late to see a relative.

Buy ones and get some free:
it's a ploy so we spend that little bit more
than we need to.

You all my heart wants

I think of you like crazy i see the rain its beauty its nothing compared to you

your my Everything i will return one day

i dream of returning to see you to bring light to this dark soul

I realized that your my everything  i need nothing else i wait years forever  for you to see the way i do

Warmth is a jumper,
a knitted, sewn and cross stitched bunker
in which we exist and sweat in, let out sighs of
I am okay or  I'm always this upset,
and behind those patterns we see the world
through a window the size of a pea, an out-of-focus
key hole where we can watch and wait
and be warm in the thought that
we've no work tomorrow.

Warmth is a blanket on a bed,
a mass produced widespread piece of material
in which we can dive under and have serial sleeps
that carry on into the evening;
and the light coming in through the wide window
hits the Hiroshima shadow-damp on the side wall
making it dance with the commuting-home-traffic.

For a second I understood what it felt like to be a drum
with an empty center that reverberated every time it was hit
just so everyone else could enjoy the music.

But now I see the drum for all that it is
it is not just emptiness
it creates that sound
it moves people
it evokes emotion

I am the drum
I am the whole drum
I am not defined by the emptiness
pounding me no longer wounds me
now I can listen to the music
now I am strong.