when I die
I do not ask that you surround my body with clay soldiers in the depths of the dirt
I ask only for you to lay me down in the grass
and construct over me a monument of your words

I ask for you to speak of me as I was unable to speak of you
for I can not articulate your presence past the word love
see, my vocal cords cannot adequately express the way I feel about you
the best I can do is replace the ink of my pen with the blood of my heart
and splatter it upon the page

you know, its times when you’re there, and i’m here
that my mind fills with your thoughts
that my elbow refuses to bend because it misses your shoulder
that I pick a flower, press it to my nose, but still smell only you

its those times, when this page, is all I have of you
so instead of folding it into a paper boat and sending it down the river
I write words upon it
I write how much I miss you — and then I send it down the river

for I know that the mouth of the river is your favorite place
that you love to catch things just before they reach the open ocean
just as you caught me, before I sailed off without direction

you stopped me, you handed me a compass,
and then you climbed right onboard yourself
and we faced the open ocean together

so when I die
I ask that you speak of our journey
speak of what we learned about love’s tendency to forget the cardinal directions
so that the compass of my soul points neither here nor there
it points solely and unwaveringly to you

your hair is time
your thighs are song
your nose is grace
your scent is morning
your eyes are praise
your mouth is prose
your soul is home

noise falls away in colorful strokes
to reveal the solid backdrop of silence
a glaring white canvas with unprovoked audacity
I turn away, but find my nose pressed
against the same blank page
in frantic movements I look up, down, around
a white prairie surrounds me, deep as the horizon

as a youth, he learned the art of separation
it was the only way to survive the pain
that burned his flesh and drowned his mind

he put his heart out of reach
placing it in a tin can - his only possession

the can became battered, dented
but his heart remained untouched

he had a gift, which he bent into a barbed wire fence
to rip apart those who tried to jump over

he surrounded himself with people
who were content with looking through the holes in the fence
who didn’t need access to his heart to love him

but then he met a man
who didn’t try to jump the fence like the others

by example, this man showed him how to open fences
this man handed him vulnerability, so he could see what it looked like

holding it for the first time, he noticed that vulnerability
had the same color, same shape, same feel
as love

in fact, he realized, this complete vulnerability
was love

he had never seen it in such perfect form
bold, deep, secure

with the knowledge that such love existed
he allowed himself a feeling he had always guarded against -
hope

he used this hope to pry open the tin can in his chest
where he found a raw, shapeless lump

so he set off, vulnerable written on his chest,
in pursuit of hands that could mold his heart

a wave swells, rises, peaks, and breaks
vanishing at a single tick of the longest hand
the next wave rises, and you forget that the first ever existed

a cloud forms, fattens, floats, and falls away
another cloud takes its place - the usual white, drifting mass
the moon continues to glow, unaffected

you are born, you grow, you love, and then you die
you and your wealth, your power, your reputation
when faced with eternity, you are nothing
but a wave in the ocean, a cloud in the sky

the snow is poetry in white powder form
its words slap my cheeks
and glisten upon my nose

still flakes stir from their sleep
provoked by the wind they rise from the ground
in brief, sudden fury

I keep my head down
looking up only to steal glances at
the picture-book in front of me

and to step out of the way
of trucks trudging by
few soldiers on this lonely frontier

the footsteps of my past are covered quickly, forgotten
all the world is open to me now
a white canvas for the brushstrokes of my boots

I step out to the middle of the road
the two yellow lines lie hidden beneath my feet
tonight I don’t need their direction

I recall the nights spent looking down on this street
dreaming from my bedroom window
I’ve pictured myself skating beneath this very streetlight

so I step forward, push off and glide
the latent layer of ice makes for a slippery stage
illuminated by the light of the lamp

I turn my heel, shift my weight and spin
twirling not with the practiced grace of a dancer
but the steady hope of a dreamer

I wish I had a partner
I wish she was here
for tonight I feel invincible
tonight I am light, breathless, infinite

when I see you
I feel like a weary winter traveler
who has glimpsed the light of a fire
and knows the closer he gets
the warmer he will be