Hallway light is out,
lost, leaving frigid darkness,
key can’t find the lock.

I apologize,
I have not kissed a woman--
most certainly a ****** too--
which might shed light on why
you’ve become my muse,
merely at the thought,
of someday loving you.

I dawn thoughts of you
like a gossamer robe
when you're gone.

Coffee in one hand, boxers
and a stained white T-shirt
underneath. A scraggly beard.

At least I have the robe.

It protects me
as I venture out
for the newspaper

from the sirocco
of absence, worry
and loneliness.

I hug my robe close.

Black clouds hurl
tiny shards of glass
when you're gone.

Paper tears under armpit,
concerned coffee sloshes,
hair blows and grease escapes

even after I'm back inside.

At least I have my robe.

The wino took the corner like a 4 year old performs surgery.

His eyes roll into glue
and dry on her instantly.
She notices and
they rip away. Blurry

He swerves to avoid the railing.  Dizzy

Intoxicated, they forget it’s not polite to stare
but his possession is met with a smile
he panics, puts his eyes on the road
and smiles back

                       while driving

                                          off the mountain

Surround me with luck,
because the cranes just flew in
and I want them to stay.

Save me some jawbreakers,
because I want to remember
being a kid in a candy store.

Collect my Popsicle sticks,
rock candy rods and bottle caps,
because I want to remember

every wine dipped evening,
flower grown morning
and poetry painted night

because, I only have five
seconds for the future,
but goldfish can remember

forever,
if you just decorate their bowl.

Although
alliteration
alleviates
all
affects
attributed to
anticipation,
it will still spill
faster from the quill
than assonance.

I flew by a greening bush
hiding a bouquet of birds
and scared them all away,
save one,

her eyes— cool blue steel—
stared from the shade.
She fluttered out, falling
under my brooding wings,

her pupils—exposed
to the sun— burned away,
revealing flames hidden inside

which danced to the same orange
tune as her feathers, like the black hearts
of her eyes were meant to be eclipsed in fire

consuming every shadow of doubt
shrouding my thoughts

Will I wait and watch? Will I
hurt and hope? Brave bird, I whisper,
yes.

"I miss you like the sun misses the flower
in the dead of winter."* -- A Knight's Tale

If you should weep
in the absence of flowers,
I would craft you one
from whatever material winter has left
and lift it high, toward the heat on your face.

While your smile melts away the snow
I’ll lie the flower down, and plant it
in the warming ground
to grow into fields
of bright reminders.

If you should hide
from me during night,
I would wait for Earth
to make her way around the wobble
on the tips of my toes—arms stretched east.

When you splash my face with light overflowing
the horizon, smiling I’ll turn to you and say,
“I’m really glad you
got me up early, I am
not a morning person”

In a gorgeous bunch of bright green grapes
the purple pigment was suspicious.
It took courage to cleanly twist and taste
to find it too, was delicious.

She lifts a heavy lid to look into the trash
finding shriveled sisters on skeletal stems.
They had hung themselves atop
their vines, wasted gems.

She caught a peek of the clever cook’s salad-
all green grapes served as superior fruits
oblivious to their missing colleagues
grown from identical roots.

In a gorgeous bunch of bright green grapes
the purple pigment was suspicious.
Because the cleaver cook took no chances
the patrons will never know

purple was delicious.

Oh  eager member,
                                       how you make a mess of things,
                                        turning long hugs into lawsuits,
                                        adding inches of distance
                                       between closer moments.
                                     You make getting up to leave
                                    a dance between the couch and door.
                                   Stealing what I’m sure is precious blood
                                 flow from my brain, you grow without
                               regards to your destination.  I’ll call you
                             rube, scrub, and newbie, ****** *****,
                           because you can make a mess
                        of even holding hands,
                     but most often,
                  just my pants.
              Sincerely,
          What should be blushing cheeks.

Dark and stolen
whisked away to stone
and cobble corners

only torches light
the way through
tombs and teeth

of skeletons and
corpses, masses that limp
through darkness

groaning forward
to their yelping doom,
little red rats ready

to take their place
slurping at you like
scavenging

snakes.  Onward you
march toward gray’s
grim madness

hacking through the
goatmen barking
choking on

the tan man’s blood
breaking the darkness
splashing bats

that charge you so.
Lava boils through
the grey gates

clashing against
the storm rider,
teasing every

chest that guides
your way ‘til
you find the tunnel-

The bones that
take you toward
the bat like wings

naked ******* against
darkened walls
bestowing

****** stars.
The fiery columns
of exploding

knights erupt
with swords and
shield that

please you so!
Gotterdamerung,
Grandfather,

The bone laden
levers, cracked
only to bring forth

the demon spiked
in red and purest
evil, aggravating

Apocalypse, fire
and slashing, nothing
but constant swings

‘til silence, screaming
and a crystal lodged
within my being.

Diablo’s end
entrapped,

Within my being.

I wear my hunger like a badge of honor
every stomach’s groan and garble is victory
wrapped in lettuce, hold the beef
and bun.

My manly appetite shrinks
from triumphant buttons bursting
to greens garnished with greens
after salads, please no dressing
or any cheese.

Beer drunk pizzas parties
turn tomato sauce on egg white omelets
scantly sprinkled with fat free
turkey pepperoni, and all fake
dairy Cheesus.

A good idea
becomes chocolate dipped
peanut butter Twinkies
served with stomach ache
covered in batter fried bits of bacon.

Trophies are knuckles
cheekbones and ribs
once buried by doughnuts
frosted with funnel cakes
served in soda pop.

So I hang my badge of hunger on bones
happily sitting behind baggy skin and habits
wrapped in clothes, I never thought
would fit.

She has cooties,
that taste like
candy cake, bad breath
that smells like
caramelized honey.
She has mono,
that gives you
superpowers, ******
would be a blessing,
but that’s just a cut
she got from climbing.
If I said, “Is that a fungus?”
She’d say nope, fungi
and I’d say “****
I got the fungeries”
If I kissed you
it wasn’t from lack of trying
not to, but because
your lips looked tasty
and I had the munchies.

I’ve found another gem in the creek,
it shines with blue orbs in the sun
and white pearls before a coffee
black canvas.  I will keep this one

but I can’t remember
where I put the last one…  time
took it away on travels tragic— mythic—
and I don’t miss it anymore

now that I have you, my shiny gem,
smoothed geode, cracked
down the center
like the last earthquake that struck my passions

terrified I’ll lose you, I put you away
in a perfect box, in the perfect darkness
of a crawl space crack, a loose closet wallboard

where I will never look again,
hidden
by an idea, hidden
by what I need you to be,
hidden with furious passions

only rivaled
by that of a 12-year-old’s rock collection.

I’ll wake up to your
dead bunny breath
allergic to sunrise eyes
pillow plowed hair
and say darling—
because I know
you hate that word—
did you know it’s true
that I still love you?

You’ll turn to me and say,
you just rhymed true and you
using the word love
in between, and I’ll say
that’s true, but only
because I love you.

I’ll spend the morning
finding more words
to play with, because
I’ll never get sick of the way
your head and shoulders sway
dancing your happy dance.
You’ll turn to me and say,
you’re using repetition
like those sad jazzy blues,
and I’ll say that’s true,
but only because I love you.

By midday your eyes will have rolled
right out of their sockets, because
I made up the word sockettes
to make fun of your
size five feet. You’ll say
I love your words,
and I’ll say you love me—
the words just come for free.

By this time
we’ve agitated our ears
into the afternoon.  They look over
to our cheeks and eyes, and down to our lips
and complain: for the love of god
contain yourselves, but we only laugh harder
by this time
you, even before me.

We’ll keep on smiling—
ignoring our faces—
using phrases like
long into the night,
then lay down to
tasty tic-tac flavored tongues
waning crescent moon eyes
and pink frosting flavored hair

and just before drifting off
we’ll say,
did you know it’s true—
despite the day—
that I still love you?

after Edgar Allen Poe:

Feeling nothing but the arrow, as it’s biting at my marrow,
He smiles some sickly smile, and rides even harder than before.
I cry, clinching my teeth, trying to bury the pain beneath,
Trying to shake my disbelief, disbelief he found me on the moor.
He could not know! But still we rode together through the moor,
His burning arrow buried at my core.

Terror tickles my spine, as I feel my horrid horse resign,
The dark rider close behind, gladly grinning; anticipating gore.
Ears ringing with steel let loose, a sword my hangman’s noose.
Dismounting, I pray to Zeus, “Zeus, god of lightning’s roar!
Let loose your bolt!” I pray to hear that thunderous roar!
My request the gods do not ignore.

Bolts of searing heat strike the swift mount’s feet.
I watch him fall, drawing steel I wait for wicked war.
Quickly to his fearsome feet,  Darkness comes to make blades meet.
My heart begins to beat, beat with fear my faint face wore:
Death I cannot cheat, Death, whose face a smile wore.
Vengeance, his swift stride bore.

My blade met earth, along with honor’s worth.
Eyes still fixed on my fearsome foe, I turn and soar.
Laughing at my turning, lungs and feet now burning,
Stomach sick and churning, churning with his roar.
Him laughing at my yearning, and fear that fuels his roar,
I pray, “Gods save me, I implore!”

Laughter no longer sounding, just my heartbeat pounding,
I turn my head to see the smile, to view which I abhor;
No black eyes beaming, no sick smile grimly gleaming.
Just my mind now screaming, screaming for rapport.
Panic in my soul now teeming, sweat seeps from every pore,
I shake while standing, alone upon the moor.

Had I just been dreaming? Tears of joy now streaming,
I laugh and choke, these fields no one dare explore!
I look around relieved, but instantly aggrieved.
My horse is gone and I bereaved, lying on the moor…
An arrow I’d received.  Now another’s breathing I can’t ignore.
I look up, then nothing more.

You,
girl who's starved of passion:
I disappear into you like
a drop of sweat in a sea of desert sand
finding the well beneath.

Buried river,
one drop from the surface boils you
turning artesian spring bringing
flowers to the desert missed longer
than forever could fathom.

New oasis,
let me bathe in your pools,
lounge in your shady breeze,
and muse over your every petal.
Bring me home in the growing seeds
I’ve sweat for you.

Dawning goddess,
don’t vanish or melt away,
and I’ll never let you dry,
forever sweating the water
I drink from your springs,
to find you again and again.

Four feet
from a flooded river’s
fierce flow, my toes
numbed by snow passed on—
and ****** about it—
numbed by the roar,
rushing, fighting,
at civil war with
everything you know
a raging river should be,
it got so caught up in its fuss
it challenged the fusion of the sun:

you stand so far away
yellow dot, why not come
and burn this boy, my
ragdoll toy? Stop scratching
at the surface of his skin, coward
come closer, come stay.
I’m only inches from sweeping
him to oblivion

Unaware was the sun to come
and play, she would melt away
a second time, then mist, the boy
as well; both to boil, until their bits,
indistinguishable,  joined the sun
in oblivion.

I wish my bones were paper, my marrow
pens; my veins were words, and blood
their ink; my skin
was leather—tattoos their titles;
air was inspiration— the oxygen
soluble.  I wish
the publisher was a block away,
but all I have to do,
is click file,
new,
create.

stolen, sealed away
in hard stone walls
soft tissue pushes
with every pulse
for freedom

passion stains

drifting through darkness
suffocating
even the earthen prison

passion weeps.

A sun rises
a thousand lifetimes away

purple dawns
the caged heart’s crown.
Blackness retreats through cracks
that grow with every heartbeat’s pound

passion never sleeps,
it beats harder
bleeding while breaking
stone walls
carved from emptiness

I wanted to name her Kathryn,
because I knew the nickname Kat
was soon to follow.
Kat put kittens in my wife’s head
so she suggested we call her Kit.
Before long, there was a Kit-Kat
in my wife’s belly.

We painted kittens in the room,
cats cute and fearsome accompanied
the cradle, changing table and toys.

We took classes, and told our friends
we’d raise a fiery feline with the heart
of a lion, body of a cougar and head of a fox.

But a fox isn’t a cat they’d say, but we’d just laugh.
Kathryn will redefine feline, female, fiery, and fantastic.  

But Kit-Kat turned into candy.
We always said she’d be sweet,
like Halloween’s first treat
before you were filled to bursting,

into tears

over chocolate,

when it was gone.

An arm around you
fingers     laced in your hair
and hands     Tangled
    glances stick
  through     silence
Don’t look
  away    or the other
      will catch     Leg muscles
tense       from memory
  wrapped tightly
        calves   meld shins.  
     Souls
welded before
     first    greetings
and naked minds
                              meeting
I’ll  never      let you go
        echoes through
speaker’s     mesh
            audio to  my visual
and still you think
      you can        clean
this         mess?

Today you saved an earthworm
stranded by the rain.
You picked banana strings
from my soggy cereal,
and told the ducks by a frozen lake
not to worry, Spring’s sun
was dawning soon.

Today you were a hero.
You smiled upon waking,
worried I let my limbs go
numb and tingly, knowing
I wanted you to sleep,
and I just smiled—
I wouldn’t wake you
for the world.

Today, you are a hero,
because you buried love.
Today I’ll be a hero too
digging right beside you.
So today we are heroes,
fighting for our hearts
bracing for the hurt
barely breathing
passed the dirt.
Heroes.

after William the ******’s love poem to Ceslie*

like unfolding the sun. like
leaking lava-lamps. like
******* stars. like

ancient language lit
by flashlight.  like
candles warming
keyboards. like

whiskey soaked
eyes weeping.  like
emptiness that keeps
on hoping. like
sick of smiling

when it doesn’t make sense

It tastes like the Sun’s warm syrup
dripping off dew glazed Marigolds
an hour after morning’s dawn.  

Rolling green plains toasted to perfection
smell sweet on the evanescent breeze
blowing over bakery fresh bread.

The new leaves in the trees quake
with noon’s convection, where
we’re sheltered by the shade

while we eat on our blanket
all day and never get full.

Walk by all the flowers.
strong orchids, dark lilacs, dim roses
potted perfectly
on familiar porches

Breathe deeply as you pass them
bruise the petals with a touch goodbye
because Summer is coming
and with it, you’re going

Walk by the yellow graffiti
rooted in the lawns
                                but stop.
if only for a moment
      to see the white

      the dead dandelion, whose unborn roots
             wish to fall from their ovule.
              They wait trembling in Spring’s
                                  cruel sunny breeze

                                             Waiting for you to blow
                                                   because with your breath
                                                             the wind blows too, and the wind
                                                                                     can carry me with you.

I wanted to cry
but couldn't—22 year old American male—
so I laced up running shoes
no jacket
just shorts
12 degree punishment.

I needed to get away
from a silent phone,
an empty inbox
so I could scream out my coward

sprinting over hills
in the full moon's
telling light.
I try to curdle blood
but choke

on vocal cords
bolted in place
by modern modesty

too scared
to sound my barbaric yawp
I yelp
like a coyote

the size of a wolf pup
that only has breath enough
for half a call.

I stop to catch the wind
and with it
howl over and over

again and again
until I scream,
freezing every heartbeat
within earshot.
A single tear
drops on the fire.

Breathing heavier now
in the moon's empty landscape
I begin dragging my feet
slowly toward the agony of a silent phone
and an empty inbox, trying to calm myself
because one tear is not enough.

The silence of poetry stings
in a dry mouth filled with fear,
And regret
that grows with every smile,
blush, and signal from the wilting
petals, but even dew
drops falling from an Iris
fail to wet dry wells.

The flower will die of neglect
but there are dozens waiting
to take its place.

Poetry will never forget
the piles of withered brown
stems, hardened thorns
and blackened petals

but still will never speak
for a tongue that quakes
behind its pearly prison.

It tends to be an awful mess.
I play with the glue, tape, staples
sutures, stitches, rivets, screws.
Bolts, nails, Band-Aids, string and
chewing gum
for as long as I can.

That’s why when you broke my fingers,
I didn’t say a word, I didn’t want you
to notice I hadn’t any fingers left—
when I was done
with my makeshift med kit.

That’s why when you bruised my ribs,
I only winced once, when you hammered
my toes, there were only two tears, when
you cracked my skull I stayed conscious to say
I’d be okay, but when you were done reshaping
everything, replacing every part of me and finally
turned on my heart, I let you take it, stitching only
what was left
of my lips together so I couldn’t scream.

Which was a mistake.  Of all the holes left
I wouldn’t repair, leaving my core hollow
was sure to collapse every single
*****-trapped, ghetto-rigged,
and half-*** bandaged
contraption I used
to replace
myself.

Eyes open too early
taking in only street light
and midnight travelers
through an open window,

so shoulders dig
back into mattress
trying to bury cheeks
into pillow, and pillow into dream.

As I fall softly through feathers
into a dimly lit reality
I am reading perfect word
after perfect word

rolling gently into sentences
stacked into stanzas
traveled by footprints, set
in the slowly falling snow.

At the end of every poem,
I am sitting before a fireplace,
flame dancing on your face
smile hidden by wineglass,
eyes lost in my voice,
hands—mine—
warming every page I turn.

The moonlit snowmen outside
wave as I begin to sweat,
waking finally to early joggers
beating the heat, through my window.

It’s almost gone, but you
don’t even know what it is.
Its capacity— degrees of freedom,
vibrational
rotational
translational,
its essence— energy
measured absolutely,
first by Kelvin.

So know when I say
I’m losing heat, I’m dropping
Kelvins, quantized packets
that could raise my voice
to jovial screaming, flail my arms
bobble my legs and work my tongue
around my lips, eyes lit like dynamite.

Temperature comes and goes
be careful not to lose your bonds,
double
triple
bonds building bridges
to your childhood,
your capacity to love.

We forget how to laugh
so hard we hurt our bellies
deafen our friends
and scare our lovers. We
forget that the public
is just full of people
and find our tongues
are slaves to only tasting.

So I just make sure I’m waiting
for that mechanical motion,
that disturbance to ride
through my every bond
that won’t be breaking
because I’m not rigid.
I’m making sure I’m ready
to vibrate, rotate
and *******
I’ll translate too.
I’m losing heat,
not degrees of freedom.

Two hundred and forty pounds, and not an ounce of confidence.
I’ve got weight enough for two women, and a heart heavy enough for three,
but I’m still waiting for the one.

Not a single date to my name, with Senior Prom a week away.  
What happened next, the blind man who walked into The *** of Gold
called miraculous.

It was five feet, four inches, one hundred and twenty pounds of she’s too
good for me.  Miss Horizon High School: the past star of my silent affections.
I cue my minstrels as the fairy tale begins:  

First it was the ‘yes’, followed by a date that ended with a fuzzy crown.
Then it was a quiet love that lived in awkward poems, freed from text
by her appreciation.

Graduation came, the two of us on stage, Valedictorians bringing in the future,
helping turn the page.  Life was like a book, and I the people’s king, the
man who’d conquered everything.

I knew this more than I knew myself, I knew it better than anything
I’d  learned from life.  I was surer than any man had ever been
that this was God.  He exists, and He loves me.

When I’d fall God would catch me, just so I could keep on jumping from
the tree to see if I could fly.  This feeling was His gift, and as a humble man,
I thanked him, instead of her.

I don’t need you,
last time I checked,
there were two lungs
     in my thoracic cavity,
a heart that pumps fluid
     at 2.13 psig,
eyes that guide fingers
with forks to my mouth,
     and feet that parked me
     in front of the food
     in the first place…

…So I started popping
one of your lungs—with that fork—
so I could help you breath,
clamping arteries
and ventricles, poking out
an eye and cutting off
your feet, but
that’s a lot of work

breathing, pumping,
seeing and walking
for two.
You know what,
     I’m gonna go try the dip.

You're still breathing.
Listen-- yes--
it's still beating.

Why so aflutter?
Say it-- yes--
words sweet to utter.

Summon strength and rile.
Flex-- yes--
your cheeks still smile.

The world is bright.
Look-- yes--
morning sings its light.

if i commanded every atom
with half a thought
and pulled your eyes to mine
                                just to smile.

if i twisted the paths of time
and space
just to pass you walking
                               all i could do is smile.

even if i ruled the universe,
Your slightest glance
smallest smirk
wanton quirk, would bring
lips to hide my tongue
and lungs to miss the air.

yet you'll wonder why
i don’t want the universe

Hollowed out so you could float,
but girl, I’m an ocean, never
believe your safe in a boat,
because your tiny raft
is empty, but could be filled
with the endless sea
of my humanity.

Sink into me.

What you think you need—
what you’ve cultivated into
flowers— I have as seeds,
can I not give you these things?
Surely they are yours to grow.
And I already know which flower
you’d find your favorite.

Sink into me.

Do you have a plan to find dry land?
Surely I will never take you there,
every wave cast from wind—
blown from your own lips—
waters the seeds you
spread yourself.

Sink into me.

Think your lover can paddle
you through my swells,
whirlpools and storms?
I will send my triangle,
her name Bermuda,
and girl, Three
is a Magic
Number

Silly girl, to think you’d float
across an ocean who dreams
of breaking dams, flooding
plains, drowning cities
and civilizations.  You will sink into me,
and be the ancient unforgettable beauty
of the sunken ship, lost at sea,
filled with gold, aging wine
and still currents,
never running cold.

Let it rain on ladies clothing,
bright young faces
and warm damp
places.  Let it rain
on scorching sands,
hibiscus petals,
and rusting metals.
Let it rain on fallen leaves,
through steaming breath
which, so soon knows
death.  Let it rain.
Let it rain the last drop
of sunshine from existence,
and whet the world with
darkness.

I stared at the hollow plastic black handles,
disgusted.
my blood shot eyes burn within the cheap
yellow tape
used to keep the covers on so they
stay sticky.
red print, black letters, yellow tape
so ugly
I looked at their cold metal tan shelf with a
sticky stain
then up at the gas station attendant, a fat
greasy man
in an unwashed t-shirt stained with
armpit sweat
who stared at nothing, mouth agape
and useless.

I thought how little care went into the
lint roller,
one purpose with no need to be pretty
or perfect.
how little care his mother put into
raising him,
how little care he put into himself,
sickening.
disgusted I lifted my gun with ecstasy
and fired.
a smatter of red decorates the bland
station walls
that shines with rapture in the florescent,
dimly lit lights.
lint rollers only have one purpose, so
I leave them.

My nose runs through plastic flowers,
dad close behind, brother
somewhere— camouflaged— in front of me.

Our prey is close.
The savanna grasses
dried and woven into baskets
but we stalk through them all the same.

As we close in, crouched among hippos
crocodiles and wildebeests
pushing orange shopping carts, we crack up,
roar, our prey hears us and we duck

into the nearest aisle of knickknacks
before she turns around,
all the other animals glaring
but Dad doesn’t care

because his cubs aren’t fighting
or fussing
they’re hunting with their father.

As our prey nears the checkout
we pounce
and she gives Dad that look:

I thought it was Mom’s “I can’t believe
you made the kids **** me” look
but it was the
“Everyone’s staring at us” look

As Dad just smiles
mane waving in the air conditioning
and pretended to eat Mom’s neck.

I can't hear snow melt
through glass or over voices,
drops of cold sunshine.

Your face, the moon
not unlike craters,
the mark
the scar
the fierce reminder
that there was impact
and after the fact,
a surge of dust
that left me.  Clean and free,
feeling better, like I could survive
another meteor shot to **** my heart’s desire.

I sever cement
crack crust
and launch magma
into China.

Stride slices air
sending eddies
like hurricanes
into cities.

I flood my wake
with sweat,
and you will know my presence
by the stink of mortality.

Only giants left breathing,
titans, gods and heroes.
As I run past the unlit horizon
I whisper to the slumbering sun,
and bid him kiss you good morning.

**** imagery.
What have the faded stars
ever done for me?

**** metaphor.
The cave that’s black
without my torch.

**** simile,
like ****** timing
and mistresses.

**** rhyming.
I’ll say to you,
just keep climbing.

**** alliteration.
I’ll illustrate irritability
inked in inevitability.

**** me, because
I love the stars
painted on the cavern walls,
mysterious midnight rendezvous,
digging my fingers into rock and dirt
like fish love to flirt with waterfalls,
but most of all I love to set
your sails atop my sea,
who pirates named,
our poetry.

Wake up ten times too early
thinking about you
like that’s what I
was born to do.
River island picnic,
sun on your face,
water in my toes.
Walking to class
with fiery eyes,
waiting an hour
to see them again.
Downing midday drinks,
walking home again—
with you— waiting
in a lobby to see
your smile rise
over the banister,
reading passed microphones,
just to you. Hands
not breaking contact
through snow or traffic,
head on my chest, safe
and simply warm.  I invite you
stay forever.

Then a tapping on the window.
Steel blue eyes turn to mercury  
and freeze with reality.

Surrealism knocks on the door
and walks in, drunk
and clueless.

Never have I held back
so much anger with a smile
and a handshake.

Drive home.
Lose reality.
Burn my own flesh

from the inside out with the torch
I swallowed, instead of trying
to melt mercury,
destroy a demon,
or reveal the truth.

trees twisted and tore with their branches
attempting to rip their roots away from the frigid wind
that whipped them and my wore-torn jacket
against my once warm chest.

i saw mid-march christmas-lights
waving on a  mailbox slowly change
from poorly timed holiday decorations,
to faded heart shaped bulbs— barely pink—
******* over choked filaments.

i didn’t look up at the stars
or down at my sneakers,
but stared into a dim lamp-lit alley
hiding dangerous characters,
who probably just needed  a light,
a smile, a fix.

But if this night
was read from a storybook’s pages
the wind would’ve wait for me
to wade through warm air,
faded hearts would breathe
their deepest red,
the stars would pulse to the rhythm
of crickets chirping who danced along
with my heartbeat’s thumping,
and the alley’s unlit cigarettes,

would glow before grins
painted on orange faces.