Rest now, while the drunk world
juggles hammers. Together,
we will await the softer hues.

Still Big-Blue circles
His nuclear neighbor, not that any of us
Have ever seen him behind the wheel.

The nausea of anticipation, the insanity
Of predictions.
Scratchy-lead-scribblings, blotted, cramped
Digits.

There's never a weekend to tell you
Or any better way;
it's the polarity that always rends me.

        " Such a wide cast net-- surely
          You'll never pull it all back together?"

Semantics, either way, on this side
Of the event horizon.

This is my way, not any other,
Though roots and stones yet cling to cover,
Though thirsting, thorny vines yet smother
The way I'll pick and shovel
And day by day reduce the rubble;
This way isn't easy, but it's worth the trouble.

Raining. Broke. Cold.
Browsing Craigslist jobs.
"Experienced Window Washer Needed"?
****; underqualified.
Rain is unsympathetic.
Shouldn't expect different.
Rain has washed a lot of windows.

We met in February,
snow painted red-bricks looming,
flaring nostrils crisply inhaling;
we scampered across the boulevard
doused in the wake of passing tires.

We kissed on a Wednesday,
economically sharing a cab,
considerately a chaste peck,
stirring up a faint blush
while you clutched my hand.

I fell in love one morning
wrapped in a paradox of your limbs;
I extricated myself miserably,
condemned to hard labor
from nine to five.

You called me today,
the unrecognized number
churning cement in my stomach,
an answer to the the seven digit prayer
I left this morning on your pillow.

A soft breeze through the thistle field
the beckoning hand of fall
the cows chew their cud:
regurgitate down, up
and down again
tails twitching half-heartedly at circling flies.
I tell the cows I miss you
but they remain casually noncommittal.
They have seen this breeze before
and a cow is wise enough to know
that some things happen
again and again
and some things
will never be the same.