Burnt toast and
a spot of blood.

Father dresses for work
and leaves with a wave,
his gabardine suit
the exact same shade
as the storm cloud blooming
on the back of his left hand.

After breakfast, mother pins
his undershirts to the wash line,
clothespins clenched
between broken teeth.

From my upstairs window,
I watch his shirts stiffening
in the flinty December air,
a chorus of white flags,
obsequious and clean.

Mother recovers in the laundry room,
where the floor is dusted with feeble
grains of spilled detergent.

I spend the afternoon
preparing for the sound
of tires crunching on gravel,
for the sweep of headlights
across the lawn.

There are plans
and maneuvers
to arrange.

Counterattacks.

Even now, the snow
on the side of the road

has turned to the color
of my childhood.

yes,
you can kiss
my rose petal eyelids
my stained cheeks
my humming neck
my willing waist
my burning skin
anywhere on
my restless body
but kiss my lips,
and I'll spend the
rest of my life
aching
grieving
searching for
your stinging tongue

  fate assured me
   we'd burn violently
    but ultimately suns die
     every flame grows tired
      every bulb will break
      every wick will drown  
     charred and regretful
    weary and worn out
   drained of energy
  choking for air
i'm not ready
to ignite
just yet

blossoms of ink,

the sighs of
spring's new
leaves looped
around the
sky,

the land filling
with the gold
arch of the sun,
white flowers
on the branches,
the ground
strewn with ivy
and green moss,

mute sun rests
in the sky,
the light pretty
joys painted in
the mind, pale
whispers of
shiny white,

gorgeous sea,
sings to
the soft flowers,
the waves start
to blossom,
blossom like
the boyish wind,

or drive on forever
like singing
rain.

her body;

i refuse to compare it to another 60's                                      
                      ­                                   cliché.
she's not a movie, not a painting.
not a flower.
not a galaxy.

she's unique enough
to be called
         a
            river
                   of
                       her
                             own

because her body is made from the same matter clouds are made of.
mountains, oceans, fields cannot compare, to the pretty girl
with the curves
that could drown you
or make you
                              float


away, she is nicotine,
she is the balloon that guided my dreams
she leaves and i do too
wherever she goes i will follow.
a quest to look for the very strengh that belongs in the core of her eyes.

if she could only see
the way she looks to me.

this one is for you
this is my apology
it's not a haiku