It's another late night
when rain strokes the yard

into gore-blue slate strakes.
Beyond the almond-thin window

a car hurtles into a red away
at the same time

as your face pushes
through the plum-colored

angelfish orchids
right to my blanket eye

as I wake from a dream
about snow in Dublin.

A moon bathes in Judas rain,
in dense yellow shadow;

although I am so alone -
I have never been so alone -

I feel your presence
in this strange convergence

of a flower's face, and
the memory of motherless snow.

Lines on the road,
heart beating,
and you in the passenger seat
like we've been doing this forever.

Am I the rhythm
of broken lines on the road -
how it all feels ready for collapse?


Sometimes I forget I exist,
and I can't touch enough
to know this isn't true.


But you touch me
and I am part of this world -

I am the lines on the road,
I am the wheels turning.

for each seed growing in a strong tree,
half a million other seeds will bite the dust,
except, to taste the dust they must believe  in the power of usefulness,

- unable to think that they will never germinate
they let themselves be carried away by exotic dreams:
dreaming of being nibbled by sparrows, washed by rain,
smelled, chewed by squirrels, beaten by hot-cold winds,
swaying in foamy waves,
touched by a second chance,
than
rotten in the mud under a tree,  be it a strong tree, who cares,
in other words, about a vigorous tree when you are a survival  arch,
canopy
arched up to the white canvases.

I walked out last night,
barley-headed,
soul burnt down to a stub,
into a black chassis
fenced with star -
my hairy-eyed heart
carried on so.
But I am thankful for you,
my friend,
who so easily righted my keel
back into the tide
with a graceful turn.

Your words sift the holly,
brace the moon,
they are petrichor
in the lavender fields.
They come across the sea,
I eat them like pastilles.
I refresh the screen in hopes
that they have spiced the page.

The way I imagine you now,
in this moment,
you are running,
lifting the beach fleetly,
trailing a supping sun -
go, then, and know that the world
is so much better for you.

the smell of freshly cut grass
is the smell of promise
in this afternoon sun, recollecting
a past time, a younger time,
always won,
but seeming lost now,
being older,
the smell of freshly cut grass,
nature's summer cologne,
something manufactured,
my own...
the whine of the lawn mower
the breeze wafting around
the smell of grass
continually known.