With  fly rod in hand
grampa slowly walks up the hill.

I search my hair for ticks because  
cousin Charlie said your **** stands

a chance of falling off if one
bites you in the fall of the year.

Gramma’s hands
shades her eyes as she squints

from the screened-in porch
toward grampa, he is on his knees,

gramma’s arms
fall and she runs;

this will probably be my last trip
to the loch with my grandparents.

And on that day my love. You will understand why time exists. Limits and endings.

They are there for cowards like you who kidnap cupid only
To find that they cannot **** her.
You can’t demand a ransom because I was never available to the taking.
I belong to whomever is brave enough to take on my demons.
Blow after blow.Kiss after kiss. Smile after frown.

I was never  yours to own or brand .
I am the one you find at the bottom of “seen” and beside double ticks as if
Black and blue weren’t a perfect match.

I am the one you find at the bottom of a Hennessey bottle or a shot glass.
Because I hit that hard and remind you that regret and pain have a redial button.
I am the one that will remind you that I can’t be  reason
enough that mommy or daddy did not love you
Bohoo. The world is cold and dark. I am sure you if you searched deeper
and looked a bit longer
You will see that god doesn’t just send angels to look over us for no reason
We are monsters that need guarding.
Don’t play with fire if you are not ready to burn all the way
This love game is for grown-ups. Sit down and play with your toys.
Let the adults handle this.
Be a coward. Walk away and I hope that one day you will have the courage to look
Back on days when assessing liquids and suffocating in thick clouds
gives you the strength to do so.
Find me in the darkness and in the light.
I am the Yin and Yan. ***** being either One.
I am both. I am what they call the One.
Your beginning and your end.
Since you have ended this journey, let me start. One.

Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a
home in wilderness.

What have I done but
wander with my eyes
in the trees? So I
will build:  wife,
family, and seek
for neighbors.

                     Or I
perish of lonesomeness
or want of food or
lightning or the bear
(must tame the hart
and wear the bear).

And maybe make an image
of my wandering, a little
image—shrine by the
roadside to signify
to traveler that I live
here in the wilderness
awake and at home.

Revere not my body when I’m gone
I do not live there anymore
The grass grows on, curtains drawn

Think not of me in the past
I am not there, but here
Always present in every breath
The life I gave lives on

See me in the eyes of my children
In all the places in-between
I am not lost but free

Now I return to the far off places
My soul envelops all that is
My body is a million pieces

A tree, a berry, a bird, a man
A baby
I will feed the world

As I always was, I will be
Remember me not
For I will live forever.

Your eyes, the sun, the way they glint and glare  
I cannot help but see through crystal glass
The way you tempt my mind unto despair,
Longing for something, far now come and passed.
Now I the Icarus, I thought I'd thrive,
Again your mind hath lured me to your soul
But turn away, and I, thine heart deny
A burning love within, I must console.
You do not know the way you pierced my heart,
Mistook my dismal speech for friendly thought-
Whilst I must not my views to you impart,
I see that all my trials lead to naught.
Regardless, in my arms I wish you home
Still welcome here wherever you may roam.

Photograph an evening sunset
of a lake, wide and long,

one thousand times more
blue than the morning star,

and vulnerable, like a late
October Rose of Sharon

blossom, minutes before
fall’s first killing frost;

hold the picture close, as
it is your life, our lives.

Some are lissome, jowly,
blossomed or pocked,  teeth

of old horses—eyes white as flour,
a few clubfoot with sisters

pregnant as October gourds.  Not
Norman Rockwell’s Americans,

but they are us and live in lopsided
bungalows with leaky roofs,

heaved sidewalks, bare
refrigerators.

I can not find the letter mother left me four days
before her death. I read it once and then placed

it in a cardboard box like you might a dull
knife or a ******* tin. The letter is

a part me, like Van Gogh’s severed
ear was to him. I want the letter

like love or sight; the way bone
                               needs marrow.