I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,

but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

October air is cold in my throat,
and it smells like clean laundry, Momma’s apron, pinecones, summer rain
I make wishes on falling leaves on the way home from school, and
never step on the red ones [they were princesses in other lives]
                  Let dinner be good.
                  Let Momma have had a good day at work.
                  Let me have a big brother.
                  Let there be peanut-butter banana crackers on the table.
I kick acorns into a pile at the front door for the squirrels and deer and rabbits;
pull at the straps on my backpack because the driveway feels safe under my sneakers, and
kick a pile of leaves up
                                                             ­    up
                                                up
           ­                                                      up
                                                up
                                                         ­        into the pumpkin-picking-blue autumn sky,

let them scatter and fall in my hair;
The leaves are my crown, and I am Queen of red-orange-yellow.

Collapsing on my bed
    in a fever,
the stitch in my side
as a knife wound
seeking to stay its itch.
My exposed torso
    reveals no such distress.
The ceiling, as always,
  holds no release.
And I'm getting sick
  of hearing my breath.

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.