Some days I still open my eyes with silent panic that as I awaken, I'll be held down.
At 8AM light streams past the gap above your curtains. Broken, I'm relearning safety.

7 years of surviving but now in your red sheets, I do not fear being held so much.

I will forget the blue jacket you wore
when our lips met, tongues curious
behind closed mouths. I will forget
the way my pinky slipped between your
middle and ring fingers as you took
my whole palm. I will forget
just as the blossom holding witness will
shed its petals.

They will return, bound by the warmth
of your ear kissing my neck while our
hair tangles together. They will return,
awakened by that passionate storm
you pour as I uncork a bottle
of neuroscience. They will return,
just as the blossom that held witness
grows its petals.

They will wilt, soured as a year leaves
the three months we shared behind. It was
my mistake.

"In your dream, a moonlight figure appears
at your bedside and touches your face.
He asks if he might share the bread
of your sorrow. You show him the table."
- Ted Kooser, Lobocraspis griseifusa

You want to hurl it at the grief-
stricken you, squatting in mirrors,
instead returning to the search for relief.
In your dream, a moonlight figure appears.

Its melody swirls in your tongue,
echoes of the familiar, but no longer adjace-
ent. In your dream, it clung
to your bedside and touched your face.

Hunting grounds exist everywhere for the prize
you search for, but silence flails it's screaming head
as you watch the passing of one thousand mayflies.
I ask if I might share the bread.

Shared stories birth laughter and tear as we nourish
our torn worlds. What we want is stable,
so I promise to contrast the flourish
of your sorrow. You've shown me the table.

My hands open as our paths unfold
apart, and behind us, cities unfold.

Two Lycaenidae tear through the lavender field,
whispering new ways for their wings to unfold.

A book dances open, its words staring at the wide-
eyed wonder of woman, watching its truths unfold.

The breath of the ocean lingers, tasting of memories:
ice cream, vinegar, and warmth, as waves unfold.

Cookie dough, melting in the oven. The smell hits
hard, and I wish for the taste, in my mouth, to unfold.

Under plum blossoms, gardens of people cultivate
understanding, allowing their chanting to unfold.

A splash, as the boy is pushed down into water. He
rises, bonded by water, to his God, his faith to unfold.

Three pugs, home from patrolling the boulevard,
resting on their owner's lap, puppy love unfolds.

Our journeys have led to different roads.
My soul opens as our fears unfold.

12 years ago today:
The first time I massaged
your scalp with my feet.  
For all those rubs,
you paid me back well, friend.

I'm sorry for the time I watered
your hair with Kool-Aid,
but it's my 1 to your 50.  
That's right, I've kept track,
so don't even try to contend.

I haven't forgotten your crimes:
The time you stole my Silly
Putty; bits of food you "found."
Crouching whenever I awoke
and let my foot descend.

You always refused to give up
your collection of clipped toenails,
or clean the marks our dog left.
And even then, when they wanted
you out, it was you who I'd defend.

But jamming the vacuum with loose ends,
that was it.  My willpower won't ever bend
to you again.  This month I'll rend
you, not my common sense, old friend.
Hardwood flooring doesn't bend.

Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away

A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way

Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.

Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away

A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.

A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.

Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey

Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way

Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.

In this era of stressed
props, I am sighing.
Lists
and signs
and disagreements
in which prawnbrokers
have added rabid plantlife
in addition to that already
labeled in the corner of the shop.

Often those additions
are at the request
of seers.