the stillness
of some nights
has few equals

owls sounds
out of nowhere
under this canopy

honeyed darkness
wrapped around
my lonely steps

and i guess i'm just asking,
if all the things you said to yourself, appeared on your body,
would you still be beautiful?

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.

We wanted to be big girls since we were little ones
we used mom's lipstick
and pretended we were mature and pretty enough
to have red, bright lips
and shiny, size six golden shoes

mum used to tell me I was pretty
and she let me use her lipstick
but I didn't really like it
so I rushed to the backyard

I tangled wild flowers in my hair
usually mixed with dandelions
and mint leaves
sometimes a couple of ladybugs came by

and after that I just stood there
being happy
and crowning myself
as the Butterfly Queen

and mum got angry
because I was a mess
and my hair was tangled
and full of dirt
seems like flowers in my hair
didn't make me pretty at all

but now I am a grown up, and I am happy too,
because I can put eyeliner without getting teary eyes
and I can tangle mint leaves in my hair:

*mum can't yell at an adult now, huh?

A very light mist starts,

it is freezing!
I hold my breath because

that is how
You make it snow,

you hold your breath.
How to stop?

I like the strings you pluck.
They sound through me and feel
Like a low hum.

I love the rub of friction
As you squeak quickly to move
Across the bridge;

Or a bow sawing back and forth,
Vibrating in my jaw.  Running
Down into the soul.