The sea has a way of forgiving
without apologizing for anything.
She swims far from humanity
yet she invites us in,
she pulls at our sands
and it lulls us to relief
while offering sustenance
and cold, sweet belief -
but when she wants us out,
she throws us like ships,
pieces of a hard-lost board game,
and if we try to resist her,
she takes us in,
and she apologizes,
but does not forgive us.

Take off your shoes. Wool sweater. Messy hair. Step forward. Fill your lungs with the cold. Open your throat. Empty ears. Shiver. Check behind you. Nothing. Check once more. Shiver. Your spine this time. Goosebumps. Back of your arms. Raised like hyenas. Toes to the edge. Reflection. Shiver. Look back, look up, look for land, look for green. Grey. No clouds. Cloud. Shake breath. Exhale. Watch it leave you. Toes to the edge. Down again. Shiver. Shiver. Grey. Shiver. Reflection. Shiver. Stop. Shiver. Reflection. Shiver. Stop. Shiver. Toes to the edge. The edge. Shiver. Blink. Ripples. Toes to the edge. Exhale. Reflection. Stop. Stop. Stop.

I memorized each way she moved,
he told me, his aging hand
letting his tea tremble.

I would always find her shoulders
and her little wine birthmark
in the sea of small red dresses,
when the band played something quick.
His toe tapped to an invisible dance,
a-one-two, three-four, one-two, three-four.

The room was always hot
and it always smelled of excitement,
he continued, with a reminiscent grin.

She'd turn with a nervous swish,
like nothing I could ever understand,
and I never did,
how she made it look so ******* graceful,
but we'd dance like the room was empty.
We'd bump into everyone.
He laughed, a tired rumble.

Once I got hit and got a ****** nose.
I didn't even notice,
because she was electric.
I loved the shock.
His eyebrows creased
into a devilish satisfaction.

The swing dance shock.

We slowly met the morning
when the sun was running late
on a grey-blue Sunday
at quarter past eight

you rolled into me
******* in grey sheets
doused in long hours
and too little sleep

while we hid in the covers
waiting for the alarm
I knew this was perfect
and never wanted to leave

the grey-blue pillows.

A chill whispers in through the doors
at Summerhill station in the dark
deep in a November evening again
when you're hardly halfway home
and nearly half asleep
listening to someone else's
favourite songs.

Kiss me at red lights
and memorize my secrets
hold my hand when you're tired
and I'll give you everything I can offer.

Everything
Reminds me of you
Because to me
You were everything.

A little rain never stops you
from walking to the bus stop
and getting where you need to go

until one day it does
and you're tempted to stay inside
where your blankets cradle you
and house plants help you breathe

your own music can play you to sleep
the heat of where you call home
filling your mind with everything
that is not the weather outside.

For a moment I
heard a small laugh

trickle down the quiet
stretch of crumbling street

across the rusted bicycles
broken down garage doors

overgrown sections of grass
scattered with sun-worn toys

and there I finally found it,
all the riches in the world.

And
don't

soon
you

we
love

will
being

run
able

out­
to

of
just

air.
*breathe?

I had a space
in the shape of you
before I knew you
were even a shape.

I had a dream about you.
In the dream, you were fine,
and in the dream, I was too.
What a shame it was but a dream.

I could just drop off the face of the world. I could get off this train and never go back to anywhere I've ever been before. But I won't. Maybe someone would miss me, or someone would be hurt, I'm sure. I don't want that. I thought about this as I walked, in an old sweater, through relentless grey drizzle before six in the morning, and I began groundlessly grinning, as if I were walking down the aisle. I was on my way to mount a train and embark upon the monotonous commute to a job I need but don't want, to work toward a profession I may not ever achieve. But somehow I don't seem to mind. I've affixed an artificial facade of contentedness to my mindlessness, and for whatever reason, I can't help but enjoy it. I could drop off the face of the world, but instead I smile in the rain and stay on the train.

You love me for who I am
or I am a **** good liar.

You
are why
I write.

You
are
my
best
days.

Two people
were admiring
the sunset together.

"If the sky
were always
this pretty,
we'd have forgotten
to look at it by now,"
one spoke over the breeze.

"I don't think that's true,"
the other replied,
"because I still look at you."

The way
you look
at me
makes me feel
so **** powerless.

Kiss me in the back of the train
share your tangled headphones

show me your favourite songs
and you can laugh at mine

we won't say anything
I'll let you in.

I forget how much I'm a fool sometimes
when I'm struck by something beautiful
a thousand locks of tangled brown hair
or the sights outside a blustery window
I have to catch myself falling in mid-air
slow my mind and attach to my thoughts
the rules I am supposed to initially apply
when made a fool by something beautiful.

We try
very hard
to be children.

The artists of the alleys
have all stayed home.
Their tags are fading,
they're too old to roam.
Where are you, artists?
Have you lost your say?
Painted over, your pain is over
but are you any better this way?
Your spray cans seem silent
and the walls are all grey -
this is when we most need colour,
but there's nothing bright to say.

We lend so much life
To so many things
That have no need of it
And we take all we can
From those that so desperately crave it.

I read it
a few times
and then again
and again and again
even though I do know
you really, truly miss me.

You were right
And I was wrong
You were the right person
And I found you at the wrong time.

With a great silent sound
as station after station passes
a woman in a rose-covered satin shawl
gingerly rests her head against the glass

the papers that will bring her home here
in a backpack hugged desperately to her
the beaded bracelet from her daughter
slipping down her waning wrist

with fearless eyes and steely jaw
she slows her pulse to just over normal
the black columns holding tonnes of city
whipping past her rattling window

clickety-clack
clickety-clack
clickety-clack

the tired train track
beats like a weary old heart.

Singing songs of simple sweetness,
we sit and stare at soundless skies.
Your call caresses cloud and crevace,
while mine can scarce hold on.
In sleep, it seems we see ourselves,
awake, we will not wonder
why we leave our wonder wary,
when we sing and stare at the sky.

I'd wake up
beside you
to tell you
I love you,
but you
are too
far away.

Catching herself halfway through a smiling sentence,
She heard the familiar door slamming "goodbye",
And her jaw told me she knew exactly what was going to happen
But neither of us really ever know anything.

We melted ice cream
in the golden afternoon
burning out at either end
young enough to enjoy it

we wasted away the summer
exhausting ourselves in the sun
easily friends forever
until forever was done.

This will be one of those things
you'll always be a little sad
that you had to let go of,
but you'll understand
why you could not
keep holding on.

This is why we need poets:
not just to write sense
from the chaos of earth
but to understand ourselves
and what we can do about it
as so few of us truly do.

Waste
what time
you're given;

              Cherish
                 the time
                    you steal.

I told you not to forget me
So you did
And I didn't want you to
But I guess I have to call it
My own fault, this time.

Hold
the hand
that holds you.

Lovely and lively and loving, alive
Are you one or more of these things?
Will you be one, then another, then none
And awake, as another, when the morning bird sings?
Will you love and be loved, live, be alive?
Will you enjoy and eat what t'th'table life brings?
Shall you sleep and be merry, nary contrary,
Till lovely and sweetly that morning bird sings?
You need to hear, to heed not fear
Melody of necessity
Not lovely, not lively, unloved but alive
Please, please, stay just that last
Be alive and I'll help you be lovely
Promise lively and loved
Lift you weakly on sparrow wings
Clothe you in hand-me-downs of earthly kings
So every day you'll hear those things
When through me, to you the morning bird sings.

I've been to too many funerals* I say
my eyes meet yours in the window

please don't make me go to yours
is what I didn't say aloud.

How dare
           I detail
your loneliness,
            when it is I
         that leaves you
                             alone?

Your midnight conversations
wrap beautifully around
our early morning
silences, warm,
well-rested
and soft.

Laughter won't come so easy
Hands will stop being soft
Conversation will empty
The same jokes will tire
Lips will taste of past
Messages will slow
Desire will falter
But for now
Things are
So good.

There is not a single solitary sound
in the apartment under the airway

until the booming rush of departure
fills the little walls with great noise

all at once the whole world trembles
and so quickly to silence I'll return.

Dying to live as if he was dying
he spoke of sleep in melatonin growl
all was grey in his sepia expression
and he dare not remember his name

with a twist of overqualified hands
he dragged the scratch ticket up an inch
across the faux-velvet subway seat
in regretful pull of the gambling fool

screeching between unsettled destination
he wrung friendly hands left alone for years
mottled digits that knew all so well
why his wife preferred the sofa.

There is a song called "Gina"
that is banished from my headphones

but sometimes it returns, feeble
hidden away until I think it is gone

then I am in the sun
my retinas, tear ducts alight

the song is over too quickly
and there is silence again.

Dear man in the moon,

I am beyond saving,
but there are others
that need you
far more than I do.

Do not
steal kisses.
Ask for them,
politely.

Every writer has penned themselves
the last on the train, the empty diner
even when we aren't that alone.

A rose by any other name
Is still a rose, if you play its game
But if you don't (and now you won't),
Any flower is but the same.