Drops of fever make dark spots on
Cardboard boxes and black plastic bags.

She always struggled to get up early.
Now she's a coil of long hair, tattoos
And sheets,

And I allow myself to stop for
One minute and look down
At this familiar sight.

I find my set of keys to the Volvo.
Back it up to the door.
Fold the seats down and start loading,
Stopping only to cough and wipe sweat.

Close the doors on a car packed
Like a good game of Tetris.

She finds me on the living room floor,
Standing with something in my hands

That I'm not sure she wants. She's naked
From the bottom up, and whispers
Hey... covering herself
With crossed arms.
Head of hair like a crow's nest.

I undo my sweater's zipper so it won't
Be cold against her skin still
Warm from sleeping

And fold it around her, meeting her
Uncovered youth with my own
Grown man's heartbroken temple of scars,
Dense hair and workman's uncosmetic
Muscles.

She sniffles as my hand finds her
Scalp through that blonde chaos to
Press her gently towards my exposed chest.

Hands start moving faster around
On our bodies, the embrace tightens, eases,
Tightens, eases, and something breaks
Within us both
Simultaneously;  

Pushing and pulling at the same time.
We let go, turn to hide eyes welling up,

And I pick a strand of her hair
From my mouth.  
Hungry. So hungry. Too

Hungry to eat
Anything.

since I wept poems freely,
from rise to set,
every breeze, every minute, each bladed grass,
a creation-emotion overtaking

the residue is
every pen dry,
every pencil nubbed,
every free and white
piece of paper,
even all the napkins,
Picasso scribbled

but this one compelled to
rise and set,
before you placed
with a gratitude that
needs no explaining,
a poem,
first and knighted as

Camaraderie

a tired, benighted idea,
oft expressed,
that cannot be contained,
swelling up, chest burn bursting
and it's not yet 600am

but the sun demands
payment for admission to this
morning's performance,
which will never be rebroadcast

so in humility, I
offer up this scrap,
in hopes it earns me
one more show tomorrow
pleasing him,
by pleasing you

we write with many motives,
but this ticket is
for my friends here,
genuine camaraderie that is holy,
sourced from holy water,
"straight from the water"*
within our physical selfs

your arm unasked slung
over my shoulder,
your words my inspiration,
your demands, none,
other than give a listen

which is no demand,
but sweet sugar daily,
crazy stupid flooded
teary-eyed
through words care crafted,
I have found so many
gentle kind
that without hesitation,
I find myself blessing us all
by repeatedly uttering
Hallelujah!