my grasp on her glass of water clanks and
      clatters like shackles,
resonates savagely for miles and miles.
until it reaches my mirror and becomes
      too red to hear;
i hadn't realized the water had reached my eyes
i couldn't know that it was so near.

saw this in the news, my darling, thought
      you might be interested -
but all the sounds from my window are muffled
by the ringing inside my ears.
hope they reach you well, i hope that you
      are well. can't check for myself.

(the dried tubers have always been enough so i never
ever asked for violets)

Time came back once again, daughter,
he left a red smudge on your chair's left arm.
it catches on my hair as I fling
      arms and legs over stained upholstery;
eyes outstretched to the ceiling (an offering:
      to whichever gods are still left.)

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
    O, learn to read what silent love hath writ,
    To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming
The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days—
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
    Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
    Because I would not dull you with my song.

how unlike stars we are!

they have been there
for longer than the soil
under your feet can remember.
their timid flicker constant before our eyes,
an eternal pattern drawn on the dark skies.
while we, ephemeral beings, are born and die,
stars, forever above, watch, wise.

and yet, as the night falls,
as those stars seemingly shine
in perfect and close union,
in truth, they are most scattered
across the infinite Space.
while some, as far as can be,
are woven into mystical fabric
on the frontiers of the Universe
others are just within
a single galaxy's reach
(oh, to stretch my arms above
and touch a star's warm fingers!)

so when we lay our small heads
on the pliant grass
and turn our eyes up to the night sky;
when we see constellations made from those
eternal diamonds of light,
in truthful honesty,
we see a lie.
for stars are, for what it counts,
entirely alone.

(perhaps we are not so unlike stars, after all.)

listen to me! we heard him cry,
a blur against the steel-blue Dusk.
but no one would take any warnings
against what we had learned to trust.

the gentle lies we tell ourselves!
lest we endure the stab of truth.
now they were naught but strangled ashes
which had once worn the mask of hope.

from the warm fire of our people
drops of wax flowed down, like tears
and they asked me: "why do you cry?"
"well", i answered,
with my hands blue, and my eyes wide,
"i've held on to the truth for too long now."
and there was no escaping Time.

You're far away.

Or maybe I am
talking is hard
because we can't find the time
but I want you to stay
a parto fo my life.

We'll do out best
to stay as close friends
we'll try our hardest
to fight the distance
to suvive this.

And when we do
we'll know blessings exist
and that our connestion
and love
will pesist.

i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin  
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea

i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"

i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back

i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.