what  troubles me,
i cannot say... and by that
i mean
i cannot say
well.
but never rest assured,
for assuredly
sleep is far
from my tongue.
further than the ineffable.
and what i cannot say well
must at least be poetry
you cannot
know

well.....

it's all i've got.

like a nest of cream-filled ice cubes
melting in Antarctica.
or your fingerprints on an oar...
but an oar made of
dead boats.

you are not a dream
i'm having.
i am having a fit
that we
are dreaming apart.
we are as rare
to each other
as glass
smoke.
and not one of us knows
how to strike
such a fire.