as she wept
bones became
songs.

time fell through bone fingers
as ashes do
when spilled

life—
a mere crack
in infinite glass.

it makes sense, doesn't it?
if poetry comes from pain,
why not take the pain of every soul
and place it in your own?
wouldn't that give you as many poems
as there are tears?

there is a special place
hidden in the space
between
your fingers
and the stars
you couldn't
catch

sleep melds
in a vat of night
    the streetlights are deathly still

unperturbed on this black book of silence
      tears tap-tap on your windowsill.

a song shouts
as I run atop the tip of death,
in all its paltry fiction.
reality spins itself into one bright dream
alone, underneath infinite hope.

rain never reaches
the warmth in the windows
and darkness can't touch this dancing soul
yet

he had a barbershop on Broadway.
it sat perfectly
midway between the river and
"the other side of town".
you passed George's
whether you wanted to or not,
but people wanted to.
he made them forget the mortgage
their ugly spouse
and tragedy.
he was half entertainer
half evangelist
which didn't leave much for barbering.
he chased away heartaches
like tufts of hair blown
across the green
and white tiled floor.
his guitar came out
more regularly than his clippers
and sermons were included
in the basic package.
you paid for the song and
the therapy,
the haircuts were free.