sometimes you make a picture in your mind
of someone you knew or someone you lost
it's torn and the colors are faded but
sometimes a picture is all that you got

"what is it like to think of a poem?"

"it's like walking down an empty street at
midnight, listening to your footsteps, then
hearing a song way off in the distance,
somewhere around the corner, maybe from
an old radio in a windowsill
and you only hear certain words, certain
phrases, so you write them down and hope that
in some broken way they read like music."

always seeking the
exact words to marry for
the perfect haiku

looking at the trees through a hole in the
ceiling as i feel a breath of air from
a dream i had where your skin was warm and
was it really a memory i don't
know because it felt real in dusk's half-light
before sleep pulled me away from time and
into a bed of leaves where there is a hole
in the floor that i'm afraid to look through

the valley of gold
closer and closer, always
just over the ridge

breathe in the colors of the city and
exhale into a steel morning.  taste warm
sprinkles of sun dust on your tongue as dawn
plays a flaming concerto.  the shrieks of
winter like a newborn's howl sail
above the frosted sands of an empty
coast as a vision of blackbird sirens
in formation, rippling like ebony
keys on a player piano.  this is
what it feels like to start over as the
longest song's final notes brush past your ears.

night snow
silent snow

hills like white waves
of rough paper
sprinkled with diamond dust

moonlight ribbons
flutter with the pines
as a gentle rush of winter
tickles our window

warming your hands
with mine

i daydream of watching
the night snow
the silent snow
with you