I pulled the curtains aside.
Laser sunset.
Clouds crimson through
Orange peel lit mists.  

Some city-in-the-clouds-
Sci-fi-scenery. Phiew.
Then, my focus shifted
To the crown of the much closer

Cherry tree;
Insects swirling in dance.
One score of Tinkerbells dancing
With one miniscule Peter Pan each.

One loving one
Loving another.
I smiled into the detailed sunset.
I smiled at the whirlwind

Of insects.
I smiled out of
My own everyday
Window.

How silly is the
Poet... Feasting from eyes
To heart. Tears, trembling hands
And all. At "nothing."

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

I was
busy planting flowers on other
planets for my great
escape to a world where people
don't laugh at your possibility of doing
terrific things, a world where your bone truth
doesn't make you feel vulnerable like
someone skinned you raw.

What a rude awakening to find out that the stratosphere
doesn't hold the answers that will make
me feel alright. My little red rocket was just a futile dream
and now that the impenetrable glass
ceiling has been meticulously charted in every possible
direction I am
directionless.

I only ever knew to keep looking up
because the horizon never seemed as close.

And now every other worn out soul
who was waiting in the line, still as ice,
to get on board
is ******* and hurt
at the harsh reality of their situation.
Park benches have lost their romance
and 3am is nothing but bleak,
when your spirit is rotting
in the trash bin besides you.