She whispered stars
into the evening
through strands of brown
that made up my world

My tiny eyelids fell
before paperback memories
of the little boy
dancing in watercolor

As her gentle curves abandoned,
I finally awoke

The boy,
   not really a prince

And she,
   my porcelain moon

No need
for valentines

She wears
men's hearts
like pendants

as the dead end road
reached its limit
we stopped
the snow
stretching behind us
from one ditch
to the other
seemingly smoking
as it skimmed the asphalt

sirens broke our silence
while we gawked
at the long-standing
blemish
among successful fields
years of neglect
now drifting away
in tufts of black smoke

our faces reflected
its tremendous glow
and he watched
my heart sink
reassuring me
that those fields
would churn out rusty nails
for the next
fifty years

Sometimes
beneath her words
subtle strokes
of ivory are heard

But she can't sing
just flails about
in murky puddles

*no galoshes

Out here,
poem is a ***** word
covered in silt
kicked up from the fields
caught in the breeze
they 'cling, cling, cling'
through dangling wind chimes
of rusty silverware
drifting away
like unwelcome guests

Dry, brittle branches ?
Black as death ?
Disrupting the smoothness ?
Of the oh-so pale blue sky ?
Your determination is ugly ?
When compared ?
To the myriad colors ?
You left on the ground ?
But this reminds me ?
My favorite tree
That Old Man Winter ?
Never wins

Freed*
from the isolation
of inadequate words,
she felt herself vanishing
like the ghosts
in her womb