Frequent & repeated lines of questioning,
not limited to frequent and repeated running,

O,
your honor,
how wyd one do in the dog days should so futile an expense be paid.

Often,

though not often enough
(and
entirely too often,)

it seems
to be
repeated

to be
repeated the sayings of the elderly,

but I say,
among others,

RUN!

collapse into the whole of everything else.

Run not in the ablative sense,
but inwardly.

The Dog Days are days in the truest meaning,
Don't Hold Me To That!!!

for this will pass,
as will those and that.

That rustling will never cease
and should it,
I fear the worst.

From this cries a home

A HOME!

for want of all.

Take this, Take me, whole, unbroken, beyond dog days and frequent and repeated sayings & questions. Take me home.

A Breath of wind is wind itself,

should true and steady braided shelfs,

foraged fords from handsome lords,

prayed hopes & proper ropes,

could life and science meet the world beyond Biology?

"A home," it cried, "a home for me with trees and lakes and reverie."

I tried and cried for something else, elsewhere

I found a leaning shelf.

Should what was true and even hold nothing told or helpless here,

I cannot hide a place inside,

though I cannot say I really tried.

The sun shines all day
Even with clouds in the way.
Be the sun and shine.

It is 16 and a half years into the new century. We have avoided any world wars and I still use bars of soap. I will make it into the next century or die trying.

Should the season change: I am the season and I am the change.

The hot June sky breathes heavily upon the tree after which I was named, which may shield me from the light of the sun, but not its violent heat or the overburdened air from which I fight each breath, air which assaults the browning grass that gave up long ago when the rains had begun, dampening the ground and the air, and so they remain, and so wildflowers grew with pious fervor oblivious to traffic, and clouds hang with handsome and gracious indifference to the Joshua tree below.

A moment in time is
Subtle
and minute.

It is uncountable and unclear,
yet
it is powerful.

It exists at an intersection
of intimacy and fear.

And those who share it,
are aware of themselves,
and what a moment means.

It means
Everything.

I am a moth, and you are the moon,
I find my way by you.
But, if I mistake a light other
than you,
for you,
It is fatal.
I am a sailor,
and you are the sun.
I find my way by you by day,
and by night,
the stars, and
the light of the moon
which is, of course,
Your light.

poem in two parts (a plane and bird)
You are a sound in still silence; a point against negative space toward which my eye is drawn. The sun set, peeking beneath a blanket of storm clouds, painting the underside, as a plane, an infinitesimal photon, a plane flew as an impossible pinprick of optimistic light, moving slowly against the immense parallax backdrop of bright and hazy pink-orange glowing thunder clouds. You are the first breath I took. You are the product of all infinities, divided by itself, the sum of all integers. When the earth falls into the sun, long after humans left, long after you left, and any recognizable trace of you is swallowed, your memory will persist. You will have still lived; You will have been the last breath I took.

A fulcrum of loss and a wedge between two equally lost people, but between them, between them still a bird, flying farther than any eye can see, but should the lights of the lighthouses lose you against their foggy panes, or should the salty wind dash you against something equally heavy, call out, and cast your voice into the sky, upon the sea, and against the stars, and maybe its echoes will live a little longer than you.