When I sleep in my room alone in my bed,
I lay with my back to the wall,
because an inch out is the edge, and be it hardwood
floors or knotted cedar trees the dark
permeates the room.  
There's nothing there, but I can never bring myself to
put my back to the unknown blindness beyond
my bed.
But when you sleep next to me in our twin bed, your feet warm next
to mine and more than half the blanket bunched under-
neath your chest;
when your drooling wets the pillow we share and
your warm breath tickles my nose,
I face the wall. I face you.

And here I sit.
   Looking up, I know something's is different.
See, I thought to play with needles you'd only end up with a track or two.
The second I dropped you in my veins my heart gave a quiver . .. . Dew drops forming on the grass as I looked over to see you shakin, your favorite song was playin and I did promise you the moon.
    If I only I knew I'd be chasing that first pinch forever.
    If only I knew you'd couldn't change ,no not ever

When we're out on the porch
In the heat of the sun, there's so much
Wonder about you --
I can't derive the tangent lines of the
Curls of your hair, or measure the
Light absorbance of your oaken eyes --
I can't integrate the perfect curve
Of your goddess body, or
Figure the infinite sum of your
Love for me --
I can't equate the fractals that
Make up your palm,
But I can kiss them all the same --

I can take you in like I do
The flowers I plant outside my
Window, more endless math
I don't care to figure --

Because just you with me, is
All I ever need.

She's the sun of my life
Who melts away the lead walls,
Tickles out the smiles, and
Brightens up my overcast.

17 feb: offbeat

I couldn't stop thinking about
grey tartan and gin
and soft pink skin.
Cigarettes and typewriters,
drops of ink on the paper
leading away from the word
"desperation."

But there it was.
"I'm leaving for the afternoon.
Your choice is to prune
the bushes or to water them."
What was I to do?
I liked them full and so did you.

You were frantic.
As though you'd misplaced something
when really you were just searching
for a fishing net.
"Look at the sunset."
Oh but it's gone, it's over, I'm sorry.

[Friend, friend
do not cower or back down
from this but know
that I am listening for you,
to you, always.]

Left to rot,
built to spill,
one of us was always ill.
I was waiting for you to come home--
I have not touched the bushes yet.

You knelt beside
The fires glow,
And blew long and deep
Through grasses low;
A gentle breeze
Of hum and whistle --
Soft and sweet through blade
And thistle.
I listened close and you
Took my voice,
And then my soul
Without a choice --
'Cause you're no mortal
When you sing;
You're and angel,
Love --
With invisible wings.

She's mid-breath when she
Takes the glass and
Splashes the water down her face;
She buries her head in a grave,
In a ground made of
Flannel, speckled with puddles.
Her hands ***** at the electric
Fence, and her fingers
Spasm and grasp and clench tight.
The sides of her back are butterfly
Wings, that flutter
With every gasp and shutter.
Her hair is the dark sky above her,
That hugs her red eyes
With fingers that sparkle thin white.

I've got nothing to say, so I say
It all; I ramble
Until her shudders are giggles --
The eclipse passes and the sun
Is in the night sky, Licking
Up and reflecting the sky specks.

So I'll put the lit up flakes on her
Already red nose,
And let the clouds dry up.

If people were like books, I think that you
Would be among the best. Not ****** life,
But instead loving like sweet honeydew.
Your brown coffee stains, ripped pages, and strife
Give you attraction; black letters give depth.
Your cover is deep brown freckle covered --
Not strained stripped blond, but color wide of breadth.
Your words are full of thoughts rediscovered,
Once old, now part of a new kind of youth.
My minds palate savours each of your words,
Every one full of grace and Christ and couth:
The sounds they make from a beautiful bird.

I am the sieve and your love is the sand
               and you'll try, oh you'll succeed,
To fill me with many deserts by your hand.

Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.

I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.

It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-

I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends ...

In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.

When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.

That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.