We are a tuning fork let
Tingle, spewing off in crests
Of interference,
Concentric circles met
Mingle, in rippled patterns; lest

We sink our pebble cupped hands,
Tiny polished eggs spackled
With inference,
And us, but mere cosmic sand
And gravity’s weak shackle

My wrist to beddings iron frame,
As the evening chirps quiet; chisel
Through indifference,
My marble block, blown by flame
Reduced to dust and grainy gristle

I met you in the foyer holding a dish. Your torn screen door propped open with anguish, you took me for a ******; I didn’t know the meaning of the word. You chopped right through me with ocular swords, left my mind shedding, exotic snakes and cheap down bedding; and I fell for it. You Said, melodic, “Hi, I’m Trish,” then forfeit your tell, which I’d come to know so well, pursed lips, a squint in your left eye and then a terrible, shaking sigh. That wasn’t your name, though I never asked why, of all the lies, that’s the one you chose to try.
You heaved the child off your back and stood there eyes wild still; pressed your lips against the window sill and caught the breeze in between your cheeks, while I was checking out the pair underneath, (your scrawny physique) those sweaty lumbar rungs, like Jacob’s ladder sprung from some mystic place. Your skin clung tight to your face as if afraid to stray, even half an inch my way. “Well, maybe another time,” was really all I could muster to say. Though you begged me to stay, it was this or the alleyway. I complied, without even questioning why. Then you led me in, on through to your pig sty, without so much as a grin. You put the little one to bed. He’d sleep sound you said, as my chest began to pound. Then your hands on my belt, and all the guilt felt began to slide, adrift on some illusory tide, dealt with by and by, by some other far off “I.”

What French doors your eyes used to be,
(Or not) nor would I dare deny that
They led me from that foyer
Across thirty thousand fields and still
Found you none the closer to me.

There is a knocking
Inside, much deeper still- Hear
Rain drops on lakes face.

My heart pumps nostalgia, and you
You’re one to talk. Leaf lipped
Sympathies, petals woven, fold
And that funny way you walk.

Sink ships, my siren song of old
Blown long across felt tipped Forests,
Cookie crumb groves, and arguably
Better for it, though honestly, who knows    

The cricket’s somber symphony,
From the obviously counterfeit?
The winds sultry destiny  
From the greasy wooden Pulpit.

My life’s a sneeze, caught
Between fruition and these
Cyclic thoughts of ought,
Should, and “Why,
what a terrible thing am I?!”

We were once a binary star
System. Gravity that loving thing,
Lacing our parts, with grace
And from whose mighty arms we swing.

Poured long, drip dried on
That black canvas we call I
Beads of alabaster dawn,
And amorphous goodbyes.