his hobbies include
                          invisible girls
                     bubble wrapped
              shielding their eyes from the sun
                        up the side of his mountain
holding fast to the cable
                                  and the eventual terror of drawing
                     paper moons
                         framed a bit too
                                                   insular
                                                   binocular
                                                   funicular
                                                   vermicular
                         these out of sightlines
                                    opaque and cobwebbed
                               screening off
                       his ***** little secrets

seeing you
in minds eye now
and your winding ways
of browning trees
makes me remember and breathe
in the taste of cold
which November only knows
and December wishes it could be
(or was)

the sound
would be muted.
Robins wouldn’t sing,
and the crickets all’d drown.
The waves out in the ocean
would rise up without a splash.
What would matter?
The rain upon my windowpane
wouldn’t pitter-patter.

I told him
the scene
would be erased.
There’d be no colors.
The green grass would
be brass. There’d be no golden
yellows, or no sky azure.
The marmalades would fade.
All would be obscure

I told him
if he leaves
the rose would not perfume.
I wouldn’t smell the mint
in the garden, even in full bloom.

I told him
I would not be heard
or seen. And all that I touch
would cut. He was the only softness
I’ve felt. And the days would run
like the molasses flood until I turned to rust.

Born with flesh and blood, but heart sold separately. Bird way up high, falling from the sky. The raining aftermath is the common denominator. When it shockwaves from ground zero, it leaves an atomic shadow—fatal impressions where a living, breathing thing once stood...