Sunday morning at the flower shop,
the wind, an icy, burning instrument of authority.

Day moon and I am feeling the compulsion to see flowers,
to gaze vacantly until the delicate colors are burned into my iris's and memory.

November... Blood month, when one must sacrifice their very soul to the Winter-sad.

The water was on
and the power was out,
a tree lost its life.
Is this what must come about
to force one to write?
I heard the tree caught fire,
illuminating gazes
as darkness fell,
a natural spell-
a ritual-
a well to fall into
that no one wants to leave...
In candlelight it's easier to see,
to breathe.

The stars, the moon.
Look at the moon,
it will guide you.
She speaks,
she weeps,
she comforts like a pale breast.
"Rest."

i cannot see the stars from my window
looking out i can almost feel the wind blow
shadows of headlights make me feel someone else is in the room
they’re most surely planning my impending doom
it’s as if my ancestors bodies are at my window

the blackberries have lost their spikes
walking down the driveway with a bike
it feels as if it’s neverending
and i know
the leaves will be descending
soon

never lead a pirate,

never command a gull.

sailors will sail

and seashells will glare like the moon,

while rough reefs quietly lead the captain.

i love you
but

worried glance struck down,
laundry hangs dry in her eyes,
underwear forlorn.

drunken thoughts now lost.
a hummingbird in my room--
in my room for hope.