winter loneliness
wise men know
is only right
that gray will stack upon gray,
that brown will fringe brown,
that lust's fire be dormant
is only right
that all things should cycle
that tender green will shoot
from hollow promise,
wise men know
is only right
that hibernia is but a season,
that low light's grip need not hold,
that there is an end
wise men know.
that dogs bark in advance of posted mems
that seed, seeded to glossy paper,
that will be read on china thrones
it is only right
that rows and rows first be planted
in dream gardens upon the vernal gardener's crapper.

i reread your poems today,
as a way of torment,
i'm swelled with you,
now fill my arms.

I propose a painting,
on a ground of white,
a band of your favorite color,
a band of mine.
Should we arrange our stripes parallel,
or should we direct them to intersect?
Would the colors compliment or clash the other?

if you were born before me,
and i before you,
then today we would be,
the way we will be,
the day after tomorrow.

guilt is a homing pigeon,
with a miraculous sense of direction.

We've all heard the fish story,
the one that got away;
there was this perfect poem
I composed,
but before I could
commit it to paper,
it to got away #&@%#

the mind vacations
before the body,
lingers while the body returns,
so to, the soul,
i've heard.