Dawn glistened through frost
Through a morning window
Through a hazy sun, leaning
Against the snow on the small mountains.
Without paint, I painted
By opening my eyes.

We drank juice instead of coffee
Ate pancakes and strawberries
Put our boots on
Walked
Until the cabin disappeared from the canvas.

The wind shifted and took with it some leaves
That fell into a stream, and swam away
From where we were

And we squinted from the cold,
Our new life
Barely as old
As breakfast.

Until the light betrays the way
your shadow knows that you are more than shadow,
fight

Until your skin and bones convince your heart
that they are all that is you,
fight

Until your patience winds up
being wound by time's own limits,
fight

Until blind luck convinces you that
nothing's left but rolling dice,
fight

Until the fate that tears your will to shreds
has will to tear it up again,
fight

Until there is a stronger word
than what is kept inside you,
fight

Until there's nothing left of you
except your empty shadow,
fight.

maybe it's supposed to happen this way.

whenever Joe the convict raked leaves within the compound,
he would always find scraps that had blown in from the other side
of the double chain link fence

--a ticket stub to a weekend matinee that
young lovers could barely afford to see, a fast food napkin
with lipstick and ketchup stains, an incomplete note
written on rainbow-colored paper, a square cotton
pad the size of a ring box--

these he would gather along with the other leaves,
using both hands to shovel everything into burlap sacks
as fast as he can, as fast as he can, as fast as he possibly can
until there was nothing left
but grass and his tired breathing.

maybe it's supposed to happen this way.

You were a phone number
on a folded piece of napkin
wedged inside the bottom of my purse
where the matchbooks and chewing gum wrappers fell
with all the change and lint and dried, uncapped pens

And I watched you float down
and almost miss your mark
when I emptied the bag above the trash
to make room for other things that were lately.

I remember you writing
then putting my pen inside your jacket pocket
thinking to myself, "This is it, this is really it"
when it wasn't.

Only when I scavenged the bottom of the ocean
did I find you
an urn, preserved
within rust and clay
ready to be brought up to surface,
cleaned,
presented as unique,
as timeless,
beautiful.

And in return, you found
a scavenger.

the sea made Henry
knot a fishline 'round his ring,
tie one end to his wrist
and throw the package in the water

as he stood there, he sang lullabyes to the ocean
tugging often at the line to make it sparkle
but elusive:

"There are no hooks to catch them with
There is no catch for me to keep
I tempt them with a promise and a song
Once sung to me."

careful
where you throw your words of hope.

they may fall
on rusted steel and cracked cement
that make them yearn to be majestic skyscrapers and pristine roads
waiting for your magic rain to wash
their truths away

and careful where you smile
to shine a light on wilted petals
that turn to your temporary sun for nourishment

careful how you stand
if the breeze catches hold
it will burn you into memory and regret its every movement

and careful when you leave
that doors are locked and windows shut
so that empty houses never hear you walk away.