you say it
another
time in
the kitchen;
then
i say it
with coffee
in the evening.
we sit,
quietly,
together
at the end
of day —
maybe you
watch a film;
my feet
at your
lap; i open
an old book
... and there
it is again.

you want
the sofa
with nine
lives --
made in a
warehouse,
carried into
a bright
room, then
a judge's
office, then
an apartment;
under the
taking off
and
putting on
of clothes.
i want to
paint the
cabinets
white.
every
morning
— naked,
when you
start to put
a shirt on,
i want to
bring you
back in bed;
tell you how
i have never
seen anything
as beautiful
as you.
you want to
tame your
wild hair
in the shower.
i want a
second cup
of coffee in
the evening.
you want
pickles on
your sandwich.
softly,
as the day
becomes
blue, rosé,
then burnt-
orange —
the lights
come on.
i open and
close the
refrigerator;
you put
music on.
somewhere,
in the middle,
i want
you
just
how
you want
me.
the
delicious
smell of
cooking
garlic; a
familiar
song.
you want
me
just
how
i want
you.

i have
overslept;
daylight
pouring
through
the sheer
curtains
in our room.
"if you're
awake —
i'm
bringing us
croissants
from the
bakery!"
warm toes
on cold floors;
a shirt —
yours
or mine.
sweet
tinkling
of the
wind chimes
outside;
the dull
sounds of
a possible
lawnmower
somewhere.
walking
to the
kitchen;
the apartment
is empty,
except —
our dog
is fed,
two cups
-- clean
and waiting
on the counter;
music
softly playing
on the radio;
the
gurgle
of the
coffee
machine
— a knock
on the door —
croissants
are here,
and you.
oh,
you.

in about
ten years
we will sit
at a very
familiar
coffeeshop,
and get
the same
coffee and
bacon-egg
things, for
the eleven-
hundredth
time.

in a
moment,
four or five
months ago,
we will have
sat in the car
and decided
to make a
life together.

seven odd years
from now,
we will find
ourselves
in front of
a window,
as it rained
outside your
parents' home.

a year or two
in the past,
we will have
crossed paths
without even
noticing.

in many an
uncountable
week; my
bare thighs
pressed
against
yours — we
will slowly
fall into
making love,
first thing
in the
morning.

last september
you will have
gone into a
cornfield and
told me that
i was the one.

fifty-three
minutes
from now
you will have
had your lunch
and kissed
me again.

several years
ago, we will
have gone
to bed in
different
worlds,
without
knowing
each other.

somewhere
in the exact
middle,
we
will have
unknowingly
imagined
and prayed
just for this.

turning in bed;
the last thing
you said to me
is the first thing
on my mind.
last night's
dishes are
still soaking
in the sink,
in the
morning.
if to love
is to stop
reflecting
in bed
and
wash the
***** -- clean,
then i am
terrible at
love today.

if you look
at the
scatter
of stars
in the sky
enough; new
constellations
begin to,
slowly,
materialize.
orion's belt
is suddenly
a man in a
postal hat
buying
croissants
at a bakery;
aquila is
string-lights
on a balcony.
the morning
sun pours in
as you sit,
quietly, at
the table —
warm
matzah,
too fragile
for butter;
words in
your brain
— a tiny
car on the
windiest day.
if you look
at decades-
old photographs
enough; they
start to
morph into
monsters
bigger than
the whole
of you. if
you look at
the monsters
enough; you
are left
with love.
the driveway
is covered
in snow; the
man is wearing
flip-flops at
the park;
the lilacs
are beginning
to grow; the
sunlight in
the afternoon
is turning
the grass
ochre-brown.
you're at
the table;
flatbread
and
depression.
i take you,
by the hand,
to the
smallest
corner of
this house.
stop. look.
if you lay
here,
with me,
and look
at the ceiling
enough; the
paint starts
to become a
night sky,
and there are
constellations.

against
the closed
window; on
the coffee
table —
steam from
the two cups
is the only
significant
movement
in this room.
then,
the rising
and falling
of your chest
next to me.
how and when
am i making
this life?
is this it?
how and when
can i give
you love?
is this it?
daylight has
gone and
come again;
the chinese
silver grass
has survived
the snow.
in new day,
we have
made new
home on a
porch; on a
balcony; on
an old second-
hand sofa;
dusted and
loved again.
crawled under
a white table,
you have tried
to fold yourself
into nothing —
"you couldn't
stay small if
you tried"
how and when
are you making
this life?
is this it?
the maple tree,
autumn-colour
trousers,
soaring choir,
chocolate
pecans,
a flask
found;
a life lost,
cornfields,
sirens,
a wooden
cigar box,
roads and
stories that
lead to places
unnamed and
unknown
are all in
an endless
loop on this
conveyor belt.
we are here;
waiting for
the end of
this day.
beginning
of this
morning;
you will
wake up
any
moment
now.
how and when
can you give
me love?
when you
ask me to
hold you,
i hold myself.
this is it.

"i have
no socks"
you say;
slightly
frustrated
in the
morning.
i watch
you —
splendid
human-dust
float about
our little
home.
in worldly
commotion
about making
the most
of this life,
i wonder
how much
more it
takes to
make the
most? if
there was
such a
thing, would
it certainly
not be
this?
here?
tea
poured
from a
saucepan
into a flask.
driving far
in the night
to watch
meteors fall
or pick up
mid-week
groceries.
could 'most'
be in a state
of mind that
makes for a
lovely, long
sleep?
coffee cups
washed and
dried; walking
along a market
making songs
out of words
at random.
shoots
becoming
leaves on
a new plant.
arms and
legs?
warm
water?
clementines?
sunlight?
this?
here?
big sigh.
you stop
in the
middle
of the
room.
look
at me.
all the
socks
are in
the left
drawer.

july was
a long
time ago.
i'm still
almost
asleep
here
underneath
this tree;
surrounded
by unknown
wildflowers
-- yellow, blue
some purple.
the insects,
come alive,
on wood
and grass
have started
to sing;
the rosy
evening sky
is mixing
with a soft
golden sun.
eyes shut,
i can hear
the children
playing at
a distance.
giggles; the
bark of a
big dog
with sweet
eyes. the
little girl
has peach
ribbons in
her hair. of
course, this
i imagine
lying here.
strands of
my wild hair
are swaying
with the
breeze;
bare toes
and thighs
and skirt
covered in
damp earth.
as the
clementines
from the
clementine
tree start
to fall, i turn
to lay on
my back.
watching,
with my
eyes closed,
the stars
slowly
appear.
lying
alone
here,
in this
meadow,
i can feel
the months
go by --
the insects
dying and
being born
again;
summer air
becoming
colder
against my
bare legs.

i tried
my best
to love
you and
ask for
nothing
in return.
the pots
and pans
in the
kitchen
remained
unmoved.
morning
tea; never
made.
the plants
were slowly
dying.

plum or
burgundy,
blue and
gray —
your
sweater
is the
loveliest
thing
about
today.
quietly,
this
morning
at the
dining table
has become
a place
in the
woods.
here,
i've come
again to
see you
in this
sweater.
brought
a boat
in case
you'd like
to come
with me
this time.
the trees;
new and
old and
named
after
friends
are
swaying
to the
songs
of our
voices.
and i have
dusted,
held
and
loved
the parts
of you that
have
longed
only for
this.
the blue
skies are
slowly
turning
into the
wooden
ceiling
of a
dining
room.
with two
cups of
tea and
buttered
toast,
here,
we have
made a
home out
of paper,
mugs and
morning
mumbles.
the golden
summer is
covered in
light snow.
and turns
out —
past
and
present
are almost
the same
thing.
plum or
burgundy,
blue and
gray — you
are lying
here
in this
sweater
with soft
sunlight
shining
in your
eyes;
between
the ocean
and the
woods,
suddenly,
i've spent
a lifetime.

sat in an
empty ***
of dry soil,
the wildflowers
have been
singing to me
all afternoon.
warm cups
of coffee
were made
again and
again in
this home
and we
laughed
at words
spoken in
silly ways.
quietly, as
the forks
napped with
the spoons,
the grey-blue
sky burst
into a deep
magenta.
a poem
was made,
and the
neighbour's
dog was
comforted
by a
familiar
face.
as the
butter
slowly,
deliciously
melted in
the pan
in our
small
kitchen,
a very
ordinary
life
went on
to bring
brilliant
joy.
the
wildflowers
sang;
we had
coffee
again.

the wild waters
of this ocean
are taking me
everywhere;
but there's an
agreement to
be on the shore
an agreement to
be on the shore
an agreement
to be on
the shore
again.

nap-hair,
toes,
nose,
thighs.
your
autumn-
rain scent
is pulling
me out
of my
slumber
and softly
putting
me back
to sleep.

how am
i feeling?
i'm feeling
everything.
slowly and
quietly at
first, then
all at once.
loudly.
breathlessly.
falling from
the sky;
drumming
on my roof.

a
quiet
ocean;
soft
beguine.
love,
it means
what you
want it
to mean.

the sunlight
shines
through
the spaces
between
the curtains.
sounds of
construction
and lawn
mowers
whirl,
quietly,
in the
autumn
air and
become
a nocturne
on your
wooden
piano.
softly
in our
little home,
when it's
half a day
half a night,
we sit
on the
floor
between
humans
and
imaginary
things
moving
like dust
around us
and have
afternoon
tea.

what happens when
you take a
photograph
of yourself —
you take a
photograph
of yourself.
you choose
where your
arms go,
what your
mouth does,
where your
humanness
resides.
you take a
photograph
of yourself
and the
world goes on.
limbs of trees
slightly bend
with the wind.
a black cardigan
lays still in a
pile of clothes.
butter,
effortlessly,
melts into
a sauce.
when you
take a
photograph
of yourself,
a photograph
becomes. lives.
then dies.
the world goes on.

a porch
on a
seashore;
a small
room with
a big window.
i love
you in
this shirt.
i love
you here
in the
chaos
of my
arms
and your
arms. my
legs and
your legs.
outside
the choir
is getting
loud and
quiet.
and i
have
cried
for all
the times
i couldn't
hold you
and bring
you from
the cold
to this
warm
home.
i have
made
us tea.
i love
you in
the first
moments
of morning
light and
soft sleep.
the
choir is
playing a
familiar
song, and
you can
have this
for ever.
the ocean
is yellow
with
sunflowers;
the stories
are turning
the skies
pink.
i love
how you
remember
things.
your
shirt
smells
lovely.
you're
looking
at me.
air.
breath.
sounds.
the choir
is just
for you.
i love
you all
the time.

sweet sombre
this morning
will bring things.
quiet movements
of the universe
mysteriously
spinning around
your significantly
insignificant life
will take care
of you, in silence.

the coral world
of mars will
continue to
float away
in a sea of
questions.
softly
carrying
water and
breath in
its heavy air;
leaving traces
of eyes
and rivers
lost in time.
they say
there was
home here
billions of
years ago.

billions and
billions and
billions of years.
before this.
before me.
before you.

yet,
here
is this
morning.
a cup
of tea.
this day will
bring things.
movements
of a quiet
universe. a
coral world;
a lonely
home,
somewhere.

a spoon
gently drags
across the
bottom of
a bowl. the
lovers laugh.
the servers
are leaning
against the
walls and
glass windows;
the water in
the aquarium
glistening
in sunlight.
afternoons
at the diner
are peculiar
and quiet.
visibly warm
— the air
outside.
inside —
condensation
on the table,
through
the cloth.
interesting
things don't
happen here;
just this
over again.
a man leans
back in his
chair and
scribbles
in his
notebook.
a waitress
twiddles
her thumbs.
i ask for
another cup
of coffee.

awkwardly i
wake up before
you, the first
morning at this
house. warm
breath in cold
air. the kitchen
sits quietly, next
to the dining
room chairs. i
open the door
to the front
garden and
look at my
phone. stare
at the silence.
distant bird;
hazy sunlight.
there is nothing
here today.
nothing here
when you
are asleep.

let me love
you, quietly.
hold the
words that
you're too
afraid to say;
paint your
soft skin pink
with fingertips.
i would like
to share this
morning light
that slowly
warms your
eyes, wrists,
your reticent
smile.
give me
the space to
name you
wonderful, to
fix lamps and
rosy lights in
the grey parts
of you. you and
i could make
spaceships out
of the papers
piling at
your desk.
real spaceships
that go to
real places.
if it's okay, i
would like to
make surreal
plans with you.
make cotton
skirts and shirts
for us to wear
to the seaside.
let me kiss
the parts
of you that
you don't love.
let me love
them, quietly.
make the
coffee cups
and flowerpots
into loved ones.
run my
fingers through
your hair.
pack
sandwiches
and notebooks
for the
spaceship.

clothes
unpacked
all over the
hotel room;
we sit at the
coffee-table
chairs in early
morning, and
quietly reconsider
our plans to go
for that walk.
coffee *** on
the quiet table;
ceramic cup
in my hands. i
look to see if
i can tell what
you really want.
you talk about
the views from
that place we
planned to go to.
i ask if you
are sleepy.
you — dressed,
with shoes
and all
look at me —
dressed in
a blanket.
wavy steam
from the
coffee ***,
soft buzz
of the air-
conditioning,
downstairs
your car in
lamplight.

simple luxuries
the swirly scent
of black tea
with ginger
on the stove,
the artful
movement
of you sitting
on the floor
and weaving
plain things
into magical
things. more
than enough
the frozen
milk with
sugar on
summer
afternoons,
the softness
of your fingers
through my
hair on
nights i
couldn't
sleep.
sweet comfort
the embroidered
napkins, the
coriander in
things, the
smell of
incense and
everything that
you prayed for.
grand treasure
teaching you
to spell our
names on
old notebooks,
asking you
for different
kisses all day,
the times
we were
distracted
enough to
laugh.
simple luxuries
to wake up
and find you,
sit on the
sofa with the
television on
hearing stories
from your
childhood.
oh, such
sweet comfort
the black
ginger tea.
more than
enough
to have
had you.

dragonflies
in sweet
summer air;
i am alone
and i have
seashells.
i crave for
the plastic
sunflowers
on our
childhood
dining table.
i miss the
devil's ivy
growing
from the
green bottle.
the small
nameless
birds are
trying to
make nests
in the balcony;
an ocean in
high tide
is crashing
against
the glass.
i am cold
and these
wet clothes
are slowly
drying on me.
i am alone
and i came
only for the
seashells.
alone,
and in
circles
these
dragonflies
in warm
summer air.
everything
somehow
becomes
you.

a kettle
on the
stove;
the windows
are closed.
listen...
you can
hear
the
rain
on
the
roof,
the glass,
the balcony,
the
ocean
that we
are on
in this
blue-green
boat.
do we
still make
tea when
the world
is falling
apart? do
we still
talk of
the world,
when we
have left
awhile?
quiet.
you're
watching
the
movie
at the
window.
blackberries
spilled
over the
table.
quiet.
daylight
against
your
ear,
neck
shoulder,
arm.
­is it
okay
if i
ask
questions?
are you
happy
on this
boat?
the kettle
is whistling,
and the
books
have
shifted
from the
motions
of the sea.
do you
think
we
might
be
lost?
do you
think
we
should
take
a nap?

you carry
flecks of
blue-green
paint on
your hands
and nails
to your
table-y
day job
everyday.

— my
to-do list,
today,
asked me
to write
a poem.
and i
think
there is
infinite
poetry
in that.

a ceramic
coffee cup,
old percolator,
your wrists.

clink clink —

the stirring
of sugar.

can we
sit on the
concrete
pathway
next to
the garden,
with our
warm
coffee
cups?
i want
to take
photographs
of you
in this
green shirt,
in this
morning
light.

i bring
my blue
childhood
to this
table;
you bring
all of
the pink
hurt that
you have
collected
in jars,
from
trying
to love
over
the years.
we sit here
together
for hours,
summers,
autumns,
winters,
and strive
to make
our
home
less
and
less
purple.

joy,
the book fairs
that brought
new worlds
to the closed box;
the money,
given, to buy
two novels.
joy,
the desk
facing the wall
and diaries
to write in.
joy,
the black pens.
joy,
the playground
with the swings
and evening air
tucking wild hair
behind my ears.
joy,
the slides,
the trees,
the gravel.
joy,
the wet grass
near the ducks
at central park.
joy,
the racks
in the kitchen
that held
the bowls
i knew.
joy,
the proxy teacher
who became
the first adult
to love my
silly poetry.
joy,
the balcony
that opened
for fresh air.
joy,
the silent sky
on the silent
walks home.
joy,
the often
empty roads.
joy,
the wrists
of the caretaker
who oiled my hair.
her uncontained love
as she kissed my cheeks,
cooked my meals,
watched me eat,
changed my sheets,
taught me
— raised me.
joy,
the soft existence
and companionship
of my two sisters.
joy,
the people
who came
and cradled me
and my big life
without hesitation;
comforted me
with their
friendship
and compassion
and tea.
joy,
the loved ones.
joy,
the growing,
the learning,
the loving.
oh such joy,
the mother
in the world
around me.
oh such joy,
the nurture
in everything.

this morning,
i've sat down
and tried to
recall memories.
memories
that i could
write about.
and nothing
significant
comes to
mind.
just
the same
childhood
television,
the feeling
of sand
between
my toes
at that
beach
i went to
a long time
ago.
years of
collecting
every letter
i've got,
then in
a moment
letting it
all go.
not
missing
the things
i thought
were important,
while i was
homeless.
kisses
on terraces.
a resort
we went
to a lot
on school
vacations.
central park.
a korean
restaurant
that i kept
going to
for the big,
floral coffee
mugs.
the consuming
thought of
wanting to
run away.
the happiness jar
full of folded
pieces of paper.
having tea
with a sweet man
after his meditation
in the morning
at my apartment.
having tea
with a warm girl
after her cigarette
in the morning
at my apartment.
a tray of
teacups
on an
airbnb
bed,
and friends
around it.
crying
in the shower.
hurting
my neck
from laughing
so much.
sitting
on the floor.
sitting
at a table
at sunset.
sitting
at a quiet
balcony
at dusk.
sitting
near a
sea
at dawn.
sitting
on the
steps
to a
kitchen
garden.
sitting
at an
empty
restaurant.
sitting,
scared
in silence
after loud
screaming.
sitting,
bored
at a
crowded
event
where
i couldn't
hear
myself.

nothing
significant.

nothing
significant
­comes to mind.

today
we are
opening
the new
coffee.
it's a rainy
morning,
our cat
is fed,
and you
have put
two chairs
out for us
to sit —
our legs
crossed,
with our
hot cups
of coffee.
in the
afternoon
we will go
and bring
some
oranges
home
from
the tree.
our little
nasturtiums
and pink
roses have
bloomed;
some of
them will
live in the
vase on
the table.
the mosquitoes
were driving
us crazy
last night.
i think
we should
get more
repellents.
you're making
a stew for
lunch today,
and i will
make
something
sweet
with the
frozen
blueberries
from last
winter.
the cups
are almost
empty. but
we will
sit here
a little
longer
watching
the cat nap,
the drizzle
fill up the
flowerpots,
clementines
drop from
our tree.

i wanted to
tell you
everything.
i wanted to
write to you
about my
heart; its
breaking,
hold you
and talk
about
trauma
and cry
and sink
and shrink
and expand.
grieve.
but
for now
here's
something:
when i
wasn't
looking,
the day
went by
beautifully,
today.
the skies
turned pink
in the evening,
as it does.
the air
became
cool
and
quiet.
we made
eggs and
vegetables.
i laughed
many times,
and there
was music.

submerged
in water
inside our
vase; i'm
floating
underneath
white lilies.
stems
intertwined
with my hair.
eyelashes
against my
walls
— you.
dim,
quiet,
meditative
— you
are in the
apartment.
wet fingertips
on glass;
i draw
the shape
of your eye.
randomness.
you smile;
draw my
nose, give
it a base,
an open top
and turn it
into a vase.
i laugh.
infinite
bubbles
rumbling
upwards.
then,
quiet
distance.
b­linking.
sounds
of the
refrigerator.

soft daylight.
behind my
eyelids it's
pink, and
white, yellow
sparkles;
maybe
lights
coming on
and off,
over
and
over
again.
a small
abstract
world.
eyes
closed.
i'm here.

sweetlove,
you're lovely
when you sleep
— here, in
a sunless
morning;
your chest
rising and
falling.
shoulders;
outlined in
lamplight.
quietly, in
your ear
i whisper
random words
— call it poetry.
i want you
to wake up.
watch you
softly,
slowly
put on
your
cotton shirt.
toes
touching
the cold floors.
i want to
make us
warm coffee,
and ask you
to read
something
from a book.
put my leg
against your leg,
my cup
next to
your cup,
my nose
to
your nose —
close.
close.
close,
watching
our sleeps
swirl together;
pupils
dilate
behind
our
eyelids.
i want
to talk
about our
backs,
and hair
and fingers
and necks
and thighs.
lean against
a wall,
as the
sun
from
the window,
slowly,
turns us
pink,
like
your brain,
like
my tongue,
like
the insides
of your
mouth,
like
my
collarbone,
like
your
beating
heart,
like
my
­lower
lip

like

i can't think.
wake up.

almost always
sitting, we
hunched over
the table and
made paper
boats,
made cake
and milk tea,
made slow
dances
out of
matchsticks
on cardboard
dance floors,
made dusty-star
constellations.
moving upwards
now, i have
walked past it.
a small
and dusty,
wooden
thing. holding
nothing but
imaginary
old paper,
stained cups
and cardboard.
as i move
onwards
we are slowly
disappearing
into thin air.
one step;
the last of our
laughter is gone.
another step;
your hair has
escaped from
between
my fingers
and lost colour
and shape.
our desks are gone.
the sink, the stars
the spotted cat
holding its breath,
watching the bird in
our kitchen garden
— dissolved.
up,
up,
up,
in the
vastness
of the view
from up here,
i see
emptiness.
quiet,
whistling
wind.
breath.
bird.
trees.
oh.
th­ank
goodness.

early dawn,
today,
there was a
chemical reaction
in the sky.
the stars dimmed
and swirled
around with the air,
and gravity,
and invisible
dispersed light;
instead of the sun,
it made a moon.
a morning moon
in a morning sky —
an extraordinary
detail on a
normal day,
when everyone
slept in a little
longer. and
the birds quietly
dusted the dew
off their wings.
i stood
at the balcony;
toothpaste breath,
achy bones;
in this little
otherworldly
mistake
of light,
wondering
if everything
is always a little
made-up.
if all truth i know
is a bit of a lie.
that this entire
reality
is actually
imagination.
wondering
if i should
wake someone up
to show them
this magic.
wondering
if this will
all go away
the moment
i choose to
tell somebody.

the green-ness
of a grasshopper,
sleep-turns of a
hibiscus at dawn,
soft humming
of the wind outside
a closed glass window
— went unnoticed today.
quietly, as the day
settled upon a
simmering turmoil,
the soap washed off
a ceramic cup
just perfectly.
cold feet
were warmed
inside a madness
of bedsheets,
blankets and duvets.
a favourite song
was made.
hair dried
flawlessly.
two people
fell asleep after
a long, long night.
a baby cow
took its first
baby breath.
the sparkle
of orange,
blue fish
underneath
clear water
in the
afternoon sun,
big shadow at
the damp roots
of a broad tree,
an old lady's
sweet laughter
at the television
— went unnoticed today.
slowly, as the day
bubbled into a hot
and cold mess,
hungry people
had their food.
a new leaf
bloomed on
a houseplant.
a notebook
was completely filled.
i wrote a small poem.

tilting a ceramic cup of tea towards the sun, i imagine all the teas we have had together. many mornings of waking up early; sitting in the quiet sounds of a television before the storm. the afternoon we made cake for the first time — checking on it over and over again, and still burning it a little — i made tea while we waited. for many years you sang songs in the evening, and stopped completely in the last few. with spiced fruit and laughter at the small garden, and then in the stillness of a purple sky when you stopped speaking to me with love, finally — we had tea. a ritual repeated over and over, it gave us something to hold onto when a home was crumbling around us. in moments of joy you called me daughter, and other times you didn't. and somewhere between that; and between the balcony and the table, stillness and chaos, sanity and paranoia, home and hell — we had glimpses of normal. food and small talk. news about the neighbours. sweet yoghurt. the bird we rescued from the bottom of a tall tree. crisp shirts that came back from the dry-cleaners. the flowers you embroidered on handkerchiefs. and tea. in the quiet, and while people spoke on the low-volume television, we sat down and finished our cups.

here, as the sunlight paints the ceramic golden, some of these days and parts of us have wilted in our old garden and decayed into an ugly-marvellous disappearance. here with my tea today, years later, i have grown a new leaf.

the old summer houses
— home to me
lonely for you —
are waiting
in the snowstorm
for a cup of tea;
for imagination
of rehearsal goodbyes,
of floors, paintings, birthday
people, knees, drugstore biscuits
joy and geraniums!
but i stand frozen
in the afternoon rain.
would you go
play my part?

a man is making music; playing a wooden piano and writing a song from the stories in his head. a woman has left away the dust on her black shoes, in a previous rain's puddle on the street. you're alone in your apartment. you have made another coffee, read a poem and sang to yourself in the evening. somewhere there has been an argument between lovers. two lovely people trying to untangle themselves out of a word-chaos, and just be held a little longer. loved a little more. the blue in the skies have gone and come again. and as we sit here in our joy and pain and relief and melancholy and warmth and heartbrokenness — a wet plate in the kitchen has slowly dried. a dog has found a warm sun spot; circled around it and settled for an afternoon nap. a ripple in a pond has dissolved into stillness, after the children ran out of pebbles and left the park. as we grieve and celebrate — the world has gone on breathing. moving and changing and creating life. no matter how we see it in the moment, the world is still gorgeously magical. it has always been. it will always be.

it's five
in the morning
and i'm at
a seashore.
the sky is
slowly
becoming pink
and i have
had tears of
happiness.
tears of
the last
glowing stars.
a small coffeeshop
run by an old woman
who loves hot mugs,
and her husband,
a florist who
brings flowers
for the cafe. —
i sit by a window;
the music is soft
and people are few.
the coffee here
reminds me of
a distant memory
i can't quite recall.
wet hair, white shirt,
eyes blushed with sleep —
i walk home
from here.
the street smells
of bread from a bakery,
tea from the cups
of an outdoor cafe,
and cigarette mixed
with last night's rain.
i stop at the
pâtisserie
to buy freshly
baked pastries
for two.
i'm home now
and the clothes
are already turning
in the washing machine.
there is your familiar
face that i love, and
there are warm kisses.
there is some tea,
and the little sounds
of a home that
harbours life.
we sleep together
in the middle of day;
our legs interlocked
and hearts beating.
it could be afternoon or
it could be eleven,
but i'm awake. and
you have made coffee
and put forks next to
the box of cakes.
there's a song in the
background, and we
are talking about
everything in the world.
my hair is dry now
and you're laughing
at something that i said.
the sunlight is
fading and
the twinkling lights
appear in the sky and
in our living room and
the balcony doors.
fresh vegetables and
leftovers in the refrigerator;
we make dinner together.
you do the dishes
while i bring out two
bowls for our dessert.
while you watch the
film, i sit next to you
and write about today.
maybe we will sleep soon,
or take a walk to the beach
or stay up all night
and make art and talk
and drink too much coffee.
maybe tomorrow
there will be work,
and offices
and paperwork
and bad weather
and writer's block
and an argument.
maybe the world
will crumble and
become dust
in the morning.
but today,
all my dreams
have come true.
and since ordinary
is so brilliant,
we can make
a perfect day
over and over again.

when you're
back home
after a night
of storm,
coldness
and rubble,
there will be
a quiet kitchen
and two blue
cups of coffee.
when you
reach here,
rest your wet
hat, and wash
the dirt out of
your hair.
take off
your coat
and sit down.
there will be
oranges, kiwis,
lemons resting
on the countertop.
fresh flowers
in an old ***.
an orange cat
laying in the
afternoon sun;
a sweet dog
in slumber.
in your stillness
you will revisit
the storm in
memory —
be careful
to only look
from a distance.
the monotone
sound of a vacuum
in the other room,
will bring you back.
you can sleep
here, or take a
walk along the
road outside.
or drive to
the beach.
after the storm
when you
come home,
there will be
hot jardineira
with whole
vegetables
for lunch.
and roasted
cinnamon apple
if you'd like it.
after the cold
when you arrive,
you will have
a place to
cry and
laugh
and live.
you can be
here for
as long as
you want.
come soon.

poetry,
on a
strange
day,
is in swirls
through time
in a rainy sky.
it's six am
somewhere,
while it's twelve
in the afternoon
somewhere else.
here
it's just
today.
the knock
of the bottom
of our
cups
put on the
top of the table;
the swish,
swoosh,
******
of the outside
when a visitor
opens the door.
i am afraid
i will forget
my words,
and that you
will ask me
of the world
and find that i
know nothing.
but you talk
about oranges.
piquant, ...sweet,
and simple — i
find it easy
to talk about
oranges.
almost
comforting
to imagine it
in tea and made
into jam, and had
for breakfast.
sounds of cutlery
and steam from
the coffee machine;
the smell of
winter air.
this is not
a big moment —
big moments
scare me.
this is
inconspicuous.
you are
shy, and
i am unpredictable.
and you have
brought me
wildflowers.
inside,
it's still today;
outside
... i'm not sure.
look —
there is a moon
in the morning,
and there
is poetry
in the sky.
where do we
go from here?

a house
in the
morning
sun.
lavender,
blue
and
grey rugs,
a yoga mat,
a small
wooden
table.
coffee-cup
with tea
on the table.
the front door
is open to
the porch;
the air smells
of tea steam,
and the mogra
down the street.
the kitchen
countertop
is dry;
a saucepan
atop
the stove.
walls — cold
from last night's
downpour.
houseplants —
extraordinarily
sleepy.
a warm, grey
and white
duvet,
brought
from the
bedroom
and put next
to the table
with the tea.

the
soft hum
of the
passing
cycles,
and the
occasional
yellow bus.

the
soft sway
of the
living-room
curtains.

here, on
the ocean
the days merge
with the nights,
and the
afternoons
are like
purple evenings.
there is coffee,
and for the
first time in
a long time,
no one asks
for the parts
of you.
no one
needs you
to give.
so, you sit
outside
a bit longer —
sunlight on
your skin;
the salty air
in your ears;
in your desk,
your chair,
your wavy grey hair
and everything
that makes you.
salty air
in the memories
that you never
forget.
the new babies,
the barking dog,
the empty cups,
the paper,
the printer,
the light switches,
the stove,
the restaurant,
the theater,
the good people,
the bad days
— salty air.

life is long
enough for
you and i
to forget that
we will not
have this
for ever.
life is short
enough
to not think
about it
too much.
so you
sleep more,
and try
to unlearn
the coldness
a dusty world
taught you.
at sea,
you love.
you love
the lavender
in the skies,
warmth of
a coat
and yourself.
you love
the braveness,
the bitterness
the sweetness
of you.
can you
believe how
endless the
ocean is?
this is bigger
than the world
on ground. bigger
than the desk,
the chair,
the grey hair
and
loneliness.
the universe
and its magic
is as yours
as it's anybody's.
here, you
can take space.
unfurl your
shoulders and
have a breath.
so you do,
in this little
moment
outside in
the sunlight.
you think
and you cry
and you smile
with your
eyes closed.
you live in
this moment —
a full life.

isn't it funny
how memories
become memories?
evaporating
from a room;
becoming a
cloud in the brain?
grey ones
and silver ones.
here, there
is space for all.
there is joy
and trauma
and melancholy.

the sun
is slowly
disappearing,
and life
is still
too long
and too short
for anything.

so you
sit outside
a little longer;
with your silhouette
against a rosy horizon,

you let it rain.

would it be
absolutely,
undoubtedly,
ridiculously
foolish of me
to think you
might think
of me,
as wonderful?
to think
the universe
is holding us
together
in the loveliest
of dimensions?
could i
for a moment
believe, you
aren't disappointed
by my ordinariness,
as i am sometimes?
that you find
my okay-ness sublime.
find comforting
my grammatical
mistakes and
mispronunciations.
maybe i'm
cute to you
with my crooked teeth,
soft stomach,
anxious heart,
shapeless hair.
maybe it's
crazy to imagine
you could
care about
the people
and things
that i love.
completely unrealistic
that i was
loveable
to you for
no particular reason.
there is not a chance
the world works
that way.
laughable
to talk about
a conspiring,
sentient universe.
...but
would it be
clearly foolish
of me to
still
think you
might think
of me
(of me!)
as wonderful?
would i be
just
out of my mind
to think you
might think
of me
at all?