It's almost June.
Still got a fire going.

I don't see myself as one of those
Scandinavian poets who write

Almost only about the weather
Without reason.

The weather is a woman.
As angry as she is breathtaking

Around here.
Turned on and scared,

We brace for impact before
Every forecast.

Will there be a summer at
All, or dull, lightless skies of

Unblue until the rain comes
Down solid again?

I dip my pen in warm memories.
Sad that they are mostly

From abroad, I surrender the idea
Of truth in poetry.

Well, we drink around fires.
Cling to the military standard long

Underwear we stole when we were
In.

See too much as potential
Firewood.

We notice that the sun never
Really sets these months,

But there's room for cold in
The light.

We pray for summer. Hoping
This year it falls

On a
Weekend.

Yes, I still feel her breath against
My ear, as asleep as my
Arm that I
Will not need to move until she
Turns in a dream,

And I sink into my own.
Never again will that passing
Train throw
Blue light shadows on the
Ceiling above

My head where her smoke
Detector
Blinks its little, red light of
Reassurance.
Whiffs of lilac as I cross the

Street to her place
Where she is waiting.
All yesterdays, now.
The right songs still summon
Recap videos of our year-and-a-

Half in
Love behind my eyes.
Not choosing suffering,
I curl up underneath a warm
Blanket of what

Was; what can never
Truly be taken
Away.
And rest.
Sometimes something flowers

With such
Grace that its passing away
Simply cannot unfold as  
Any less graceful.
Ghandi shot in the chest, meeting

The Void whispering:
Ram, Ram, God's
Name, as if saying: "I'm coming,
Look, ma': No hands!"
No attachments.

Lovers no more, friends for life, 
Once sharers of
Intimacy and
Laughter, tears and everyday
Moments; little

Grains of gold.
Our own buried treasure
Where ex marks the spot, and the
Map is riding on
Kisses blowing with the

Scent of lilac and the sound of
Magpies chattering against  
Trains as if saying: "Just try, I'll
Take ya!"
Our attitude

In the nutshell they
Peck at with hungry
Beaks, leaving little traces like
Runes in powder snow.
To be nothing but grateful, even

For the days that could have been
Better. To miss her with a
Warm heart, content.
Wish her more happiness and
Security than I did even on

The days of
Our most intense affections.
Parting is part of Life, and
I'll remain at peace with
The parts both

Before and
After, until
My arm is
Forever asleep with the
Rest of me, resting.

I put on socks knitted by a
Grandmother long gone
And open my windows to winter.

Fine snow like mist through a microscope
Enters and dies at the tempered hands of
Home.

I reach outside to stroke the crystal

Stream in the air,
Looking forward to sun, and the rain.
Always also the rain.

Fooled again by spring changing
Its mind and retreating.

Skies are waterfalls of snow above
The white veiled construction site.

I can barely see the crane, blowing
Grey slush from my walkie before

Telling the driver to lift these
Two-by-fours that just days ago

Reminded me of lake piers and
Diving boards under tomorrow's

Summer sun. Today they are
Firewood in these eyes blinking

Snowflakes into tears that I wipe
With padded gloves, leaving

Streaks of oil and concrete on
Cheeks pale with winter under an

Icicled full beard.
Fooled again.

This is Norway.
This is where giants come to shiver.

Losing physical weight as my
Mind expands.
I have been mouth for as long
As I can remember,

Now let me be hands. Hands, so
I may release you and hunger on.
Blessed be all things un-eternal.
I can only sleep in burning houses.