sand falling through
tightly laced
corset

can only know
neoprene kisses
purple from asphyxiation

my kefir spurts
sour oats
to the dry wind

never finding
spreaded parchment
smiling

never inking
sailor's story come
homely

what the **** is a Nightingale I
know its a bird I
know there Florence Nightingale
and in my abstract mind I
see a bird of the night
sitting upon the chest of my
sick child

she's not plucking her
eyes for food instead
she's giving her Dark
magic from our book

she's nursing Midnight's Children
with kisses as tender
as an obsidian blade
shaving pubescent legs
to a sharp sheen
ready to cut morning's
edge with ebony rage

In twilight of cloudy morning
I look unglassed into a mirror
and sight nearly the old
face that use to be

In reflective hours of still
young morning
I listen for passing echos
from cars and passengers on
their Work way that will be

In greying silver of late morning
Summer I feel expire
as the class of 2020
arrives at Harvard
wondering want can be

May the Force be with you and also
with you although me walk through
valleys Solo Han'd we're not fearing
any man or Cain any Able
minded soldiers packing power
converters once more
unto the breach

It's October 25 for David
and the 3rd of August for me we
both had always known
that graduate school will be
the best of times as David
reads Auden, Freud and
Lionel Trilling who? while we
read mysteries about NFAT, Fos
and Jun who? we
both imagine a wondrous future with dolphins
in Space and Uplifting worlds we
had so much time
to binge and watch
Netflix being born
as DVDs through the mail before streaming consciousness
remembers our Dads taking us to see
the Yankees lose
or buy comic books we
lend out to friends
not realizing we
haven't asked them
to please take great care of our
small instance of the Love class

I hardly new a girl once
in High School she was a Home
Coming queen in her late
forties now probably
married with kids
and a husband spreading
out a little
but when he stares into
almond eyes he still sees
a petite girl
with a raspy voice even though
she's never smoked
a day but maybe inhaled the Hours.

Dreams they drown
under the Stone
under the Star

At least we
Stole The Show

Our Houdini act
of failed dedication
defiant to the End

Fragments float
up scenting a
stream with rotting
love locked
in the truck