Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!
   I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
   And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.

’Twas thus, as ancient fables tell,
   Love visited a Grecian maid,
Till she disturbed the sacred spell,
   And woke to find her hopes betrayed.

But gentle sleep shall veil my sight,
   And Psyche’s lamp shall darkling be,
When, in the visions of the night,
   Thou dost renew thy vows to me.

Then come to me in dreams, my love,
   I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
   And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.

“The news told me,” she said, like we were close, “the news said nearsightedness isn’t just genetics, isn’t just luck of the draw.” I’d never been a gambler. My interests were absorbed in my spoon’s inverted picture.
“What I mean, is clarity is in the hands of the person.” Or in the eyes. “You look at things too close when you’re young, and you lose focus forever.”
Her arms crossed over her uniform, a seafoam apron. She looked through her bifocals at her thoughts. Four kids in seven years. Her body was tense and doughy from the push and pull of life.
“Now imagine that,” her roadrash voice rumbled. “If I had just looked at the horizon more I wouldn’t need these **** lenses. My whole life could’ve been different.”
I pushed my empty coffee cup in her direction so she had a better reach, and gave her a half smile. “Yes. Imagine that,” I said.

the more I know, the more I know I don't know

and that is okay

because

in that moment

I am absolutely passive

things may come

and things may go

like they will do

and it will not affect me

I am still

listening

feeling

aware

zen

She models
With nothing but her earrings on.
Gold tendrils
Dancing across her shoulders
Lost in a sea of black curls.
Her beauty
Is that of an angel.
A halo
Of sheer radiance
Glistening around her wings.
Her body
Is that of a woman.
Lost
In unmarked territory along open winding passageways that
God
Didn't even create a roadmap for.
She can fly,
He said.
The only eyes to witness were her's and God's
And the eyes gazing back at her through the mirror
Watching her model
With nothing but her earrings on.
Gold tendrils
Dancing across her shoulders
Lost in a sea of black curls.

Where do poems go when you lose them?
Blurred by tears,
Swept out to sea,
Past sharp rocks,
Found by lonely fishermen,
Their fingers tracing waves.

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.

Your name is the loveliest word
I've ever said. In my life
I've never known someone like you.
Your aura is a quilt
that I could spend all day in
if you'd let me.
I think the chances of me meeting
another you are absurd
and I find the whole idea
to be terrifying.
I could make so much room
for you in my heart.

The most beautiful thing I've ever read-
was a love poem that I found,
hidden between the dusty cupboards of my mother's room,
filled with things that just
"didn't matter"
anymore.

It was flooding with thoughts I waved off as-
"foolish"
with fake plastic vows of love,  
not unlike those crisp, shiny valentine heart rings,
only given to the most attractive every February.

Stories of parting,
from which shone a glossy sparkle like that of a fake glass diamond,
labeled with black numbers as something worth a thousand.
I've always thought that if you were going to leave someone, you should be aloof and cold.
If you make "warm memories", won't the parting just be that much harder?

That sunset that was described as being unrealistically
ethereal,
I tried to see it myself,
even hooking my feet around the cold metal bars of the balcony,
and pretending that I could fly.
But that sunset was fake too, I discovered.
A synonym of those medals that you eagerly await to get, but in the end,
aren't gold,
or silver,
but just a sheet of mocking plastic,
thousands of identical ones of which have been made,
in a factory choking on smog,
thousands of miles away,
in China.

There was always that villain,
who would try to break the lovers apart.
Sometimes,
the villain was described as, "dark", and "Irresistible".
I was puzzled by that fact,
mulling obsessively over the idea,
Why didn't the protagonist get with the villain in the end?

I was undeniably jealous, of the heroine,
who seemed to draw everyone to her with a warm light,
that I didn't seem to have, no matter how hard I tried.
She was a perfect damsel in distress,
waiting for her partner, who would always,
always,
without fail, come to save her from danger and the unknown.
They were both risking everything for what they loved.

"Stereotypical love poem,"
I scoff,
willing myself to throw that piece of paper away with the trash,
But-
to this day, the most beautiful thing I have read,
is that stereotypical love poem,
now tucked between two bookshelves,
which are full of things, that
"matter"
now.