smooth grey stones
bounce across the stream
as if begging for one last glimpse
of the rainbow-toned sunset

as they skip across
the fast current surface
before sinking into a watery grave
as i throw them to their death

What is a boat good for
where there's no water?
A coma tied to dockside
missing it's blue waves.

What is poet's purpose
when he's a lousy knotter?
A lack of words on paper,
his mind is short of tales.

He's fishing for ideas
on a ship that won't sail,
oblivious to his surroundings,
he's only bound to fail.

The wind braided my hair,
It called me beautiful,
And perhaps in the wind’s eyes I am.
But when I looked in the mirror
I saw a tangled mess atop my head.

It drips from my fingertips
From my lips, from my eyes
From the gemstone she gave me
Dangling round my neck.

I gaze at her,
Spilling all over the floor
Staining the carpets
With my dilapidated love

He thinks as we get older that the bible is a comforter,

each to their own, but my table's a little broader and the sorts of things I place there do not include a bible, but they do include a faith which keeps me warm on chilly evenings.

I don't need to read about good deeds or miracles if they took place, the only thing I need to do is face the sun and I see you in all the light that shines on me.

I miss New York

             And Think.

And other things
    

           that taste of coffee