Your analyst once called you a wretch
and told you to leave.

You say you get
“caught up in the moment” but really

you are morphing in disarray –
poet to death-marker, undertaker to toddler;

it’s boring and you accept that.
What you lack in understanding

you make up for in crushed leaves.
Like a tractor-trailor in the Bronze Age,

you are out of place.
But the sky is starrier than ever

so you feel okay
when the wind hits your eyes.

See! I give myself to you, Beloved!
My words are little jars
For you to take and put upon a shelf.
Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,
And they have many pleasant colours and lustres
To recommend them.
Also the scent from them fills the room
With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.

When I shall have given you the last one,
You will have the whole of me,
But I shall be dead

Waves and words
conveyed through cracked cuticles
and shrouded in fog.
The harder one stares
into the mist
the less visible
the details become.
As with a photo
that's out of focus
step back
and widen the eyes.

I know you'd be happier
Without all of the struggles
I've brought along
But without you
Where would I be now?

You've made me laugh
Hell, you've even made me cry
I guess opposites attract
And we're too similar
For you to think of me
Any other way
Than you do already

I'm happy
I truly am
The sky more blue
The grass more green
The only thing
That could make me happier
Is *you

I could tell you my hopes,
I could tell you my dreams.
But you'd just sell me some story,
take my money, and leave.

Doppelganger Poltergeist
Throw 'em once
Catch 'em twice

I watched a rosebud very long
  Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
  Waiting to see the perfect flower:
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
  It opened at the matin hour
And fell at even-song.

I watched a nest from day to day,
  A green nest full of pleasant shade,
  Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
But when they should have hatched in May,
  The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.

Then in my wrath I broke the bough
  That I had tended so with care,
  Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
  Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.

But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
  And the eggs answered me again:
  Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
  Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?