you exhale; it is the wind through
the forest; the rising of brittle
brown leaves

into a uniform, twisting thing
of color; our lives bounded
along its length

then it rests; the long brush-
stroke reaches canvas’ edge -  
a clearing

(this is not the end, but as if
only to pause for another
breath)

I finished
a bottle and then
opened another
and then
had a glass and then

poured the rest out
and called
a friend, who didn't
care, then another
bottle,  I can't

bring myself to cry but
on the inside violently

I don't feel anybody's
skin beside me

relax the sun is good and see it
come in through the window but
there is another source hidden and
secret is the heat that rises
from your chest and enters mine
and breaks down the walls of
the city inside and heals
all the broken

yesterday with you in
March, the cherry
blossoms - please
don't miss the little
flowers in your
search for a more
giving thing because
my sweetest love,
there is none. only
the children know
this, but I think
we are all children
after the rain.

Green eyes.
Green, yellowish in
the center.
Sunflowers in
the center, and
white skin and
freckles and
everything else is
red

Old myths dying under
the new sun
rising, spilling over
grassy fields dotted
with poppies

The day is unspoiled.

The blooming of the Western
Azalea is
emergence into womanhood!
The inevitable burst of  
color from bud, that
once released-
cannot endure the contrast,
cannot linger in the
putrid air
between us- a film
covers her pink blush.
Everything returns
to a uniform grey.

It is late September
which means
Summer is dead or dying.
And this confirms the rule-
(there is no god- and always
a final descent).
But living is to thirst
for an exception.
This is Love's promise:
that its brilliance will shield it
from its fate.
It is the same promise
that Summer made.