You said, "I love you."
I hear your echoes even now;

Although our love has fallen.  Down
With the trappings of human sentiment.

Who needs LOVE, anyway?  Not
I.

"Handsome fellow,"
She said.  Blue-black,
Eyes of knowing, cocked
Head, he is peering
At her with certainty.
"Caw!" His answer of love.

stop pouring
the glass is empty
it is too much

Sherlock  ̶
the search for home
brings mysteries

love doesn’t care ̶
I turn
and look at you

standing on the edge
mountain pools
wrinkle stars

my cheeks chap
your icy hand slaps
my winterly face

the bell rings ̶
a wet finger
upon the rim of a glass

slip sweetly  ̶
I hear your silver
feet on rocks

A baby elephant will be tied with a little rope.

It can only go in a small circle, round and round.

Even when grown and able to break that tiny rope

It will not -

Because it is held by the memory of the past.

Em-dash
I look for you.
I cannot find you

You, a watermark
just beneath my skin;

A page of text in
my mind, which

I choose to read
over and over, again.

You remind me of the woman that I have lashed
Until finally I ran her off.  God, I loved her.
But, she scared me to death!

I smell the sweet scent of pipe.  
In your quietness, the memory curls around my head
Like the smoke from one of your smoldering cigars.
Your hand, cigar still between *******,
Going up and into snow white hair, flickers
Briefly through my mind in the halo of smoke.
Then it is back to covering your intelligent face
With the latest newspaper, a barrier between
You and your world.

You do not see the criminal.
You say to me,

"You only see stuff that fear allows me to show."
You are the tongue of mass ******.

What was the motive?
In another cell a complex code casts you the victim.

We tie our lips up in knots
In order not to name the truths we know.

Glorious dots swirl above our heads like millions of
glowing bees as we spin arms outstretched.

The air is warm while the earth is cool beneath bare feet
And a light mist rises among the pecan orchard trees.

I want to keep this place living in our minds.  We can
Never grow old in this childish embrace of memory.

I like the strings you pluck.
They sound through me and feel
Like a low hum.

I love the rub of friction
As you squeak quickly to move
Across the bridge;

Or a bow sawing back and forth,
Vibrating in my jaw.  Running
Down into the soul.

Mastering the ****
Is a major part of skill
For things with wings.

You angle your face
To pin-point the sound
Of the beating heart.

Slow and silent is your flight.

A very light mist starts,

it is freezing!
I hold my breath because

that is how
You make it snow,

you hold your breath.
How to stop?