My heart is yearning to follow the sun
Westward o'er a golden sea
Upon a raft made of my memories.
I will anchor there when day is done
On my beloved homes  distant shore
And those I love will welcome me once more.
But words that I'd been saving now are gone
scattered like rose petals on far streets,
Then what is left to spread beneath their feet?
Or it may be I've been away to long
And there is nothing more for me to see
And only ghosts are left to welcome me.

First frost,
The bed grows cold
Without you.
Full moon,
Freezing beneath
Your blanket of silence.
Springtime thaw,
Only a distant promise.

It is was this which teaches
Taught me
Ambi
Dex
Terity,
Though of
Left hand
Teeth
Tooth-brushing
My knowledge is rough;
It was is those these
Sunny
Dusty
Sunny afternoons in the sun,
The sun at the right angle
Angled towards me,
But not in my eyes
And the black
Fabric
Black, even in the sun,
As a field against which the
Sun angled out of my eyes
Shines
Shone
Sunny directly on my hands,
To which advantage
My advantage,
Or yours,
Would allow me
To pluck with tender
Specific
Tender care
Each thin blonde thin hair on my knuckles.
I already have will always doubt that you notice
Or notice that I notice you don’t, you never notice;
I notice you noticing me noticing you not noticing
My perfect,
Thin-blonde-thin, blonde-hair-free knuckles.

Strange;
different words,
differently arranged,
yet nothing's changed--
Yearning remains.

a brown-eyed susan deflowered in the unmade bed of a bleary eyed boy
she ***** her fists into ocean blue sheets,
she feels as if her roots are about to give
with clumsy hands, he caresses her spine

he calls her beautiful

she is awoken by a gentle beam of sunlight that sneaks through his curtains
and kisses her eyelids
her delicate petals litter the floor

she tip-toes around them

and sees herself out.

it is winter,
still
although warm days
deceive us

dead branches
brown lawns
desolation

now, finally, in a winter's
black night
giant, sodden,
perfect
snowflakes
drift

the sky clouded
     full of snow
to make the night sky
     day

we stand
each wielding a shovel
working

sharing the joy
in this
perfect
winter
moment

         in which
the universe once again

seems to work

yet,

it is the bond
of the shared moment
which generates an
intensity of
closeness

a perfect understanding
between souls
strung out along
the driveway


shoveling snow
in a cloud of grey
steam

I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.  
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.

(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)

He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.

He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.

Had he not been there?  
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.

But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.