Shards of memory
still draw blood,
razor sharp reminders
of another life,
when you loved me
and I loved you.
I could sense gravity on my skin then,
hear the color flush into the blooms,
anticipate the grasshopper's solo
before its first note–
but that was back when
you loved me
and I loved you.

He crushed her fortune cookies
one after another,
peeked into crevices
where the tender things lived,
plundered her secrets
like Godzilla out for an evening stroll,
leaving only flavorless dust
and damage in his wake.

A helicopter fashioned
from feathers and fairy dust
buzzed the rioting fuchsia,

Newton's laws upended,
outsmarted,
The ruby-throated flier darted
over and under blossoms,
taking samples
with the lightest touch--
like a visitor from another planet
intending no harm,

then he backed off, surveying,
Lingering in weightlessness,
Suspended in the moment before,
when all is possible,
Poised on the edge of
free fall,
deciding what's next.

Hi there,
I say to the ocean,
dropping my shoes
for the sandy pilgrimage
to shore,

A lone figure wanders
into a Delft seascape,
Blues and whites
of Dutch perfection engulf
my field of vision,
Water and sky reflecting
back infinite shades,

the blue of stiff dungarees
at the horizon,
clouds in shaving cream white,
the heron blue gray of the shallows,
I could name twenty shades
on a good day, like today
when the beach is all mine,

I step into the cool ooze,
jolted into a sudden jig,
I hop, a riot of ah's and elbows,
Waves rush at me
like a legion of puppies,
frothy and excited,
I laugh at their sloppy greeting,
Overwhelmed by their welcome,
unconditional and salty,
Spray lapping my face
as I find my footing.

Golden lightning bolts
         jolt the muse to action
Dark skies lit for one...

A quiet fury
blossoms in my chest,
an orchid of rage
unfolds in silence,
poisonous and strangely beautiful,
creamy petals strain against
the cavity where I once
kept my heart.

I ooze
      from kitchen
                  to desk
                       to couch
                             leaving
                                    a trail of words
                                                  behind me

We die each night,  
Passports stamped
in invisible ink
to a realm where
the possible and impossible
shimmer
beneath purple sunsets,
Where the breath of imagination
bends eternity for a moment,
Wishes skinny dip in deep time,
Hopes burble into form,
And fears slither out to play.
As morning seeps into our lids
and the edges begin to blur,
We straddle two worlds
for an instant,
Then blink away the mystery,
a taste of death on our lips.

Morning slips in
like a wide-eyed child
at my bedside,
I roll over
and smile,
ready to play.

Your words,
like silken tendrils,
crept along my skin,
Passing shivers flared,
Brushed off
with an uneasy smile,
Now these diaphanous strands  
threaten to mummify,
Encase me in a cocoon
of slights,
sarcasm,
and casual cruelty,
Liquifying my insides
to better feed you,
Bloat your predatory emptiness
with my life-force,
Your clacking mouthparts sharpen,
As does my resolve,
My innards are not for your
slurping,
Skitter back to your shadowy lair,
This corpse will not play,
I rise, awakened,
The sun waits for me.

Alone in a snowy field,
Branches plead,
Moans lost in the wind
while flurries dance,
Heavy with fruit long since spoiled,
Mutinous apples cling,
Their coppery smirks
defy Persephone's call to plunge,
They hold tight,
Swelled with spongy pride,
Winter's swirling display fuels rebellion,
Their snowy caps worn with aplomb,
Parisian pommes de neige
usurp nature's order,
Flexing branches like Diana's bow,
A heart-shaped shadow in the wood,
Threatening to break,
While robins bide their time.

Bathed in the shade of
a rubbery rhododendron,
I sway imperceptibly,
Lulled by nature's rhythms,
A silent, sleepy visitor
splayed on a ropey nest,
Serenaded by an aerial orchestra,
Chirps and trills
and throaty warbles
spiral downward,
Atomized in the languid breeze
like a Roman candle,
A staccato riff,
Jack-hammered into a dying birch,
Urges me back from the edge,
Where dream and dreamer part,
A gauzy memory of a melody lost,
Performed for the oblivious,
and a dozing, grateful
audience of one.