On the eve of the
    time when I saw
          you in lights
              there arises a feeling of aging

      am I yours, are you mine, there we
                   are holding hands spending
                       time that will let us (someday
                                    we'll settle down)
another year,
        another number written
                  on a sleeping page
             (they've gone and shaken awake every
                      dreaming soul to ask them what
                                    it is you could be calling
                                                         ­ me to say)

  talk about the house that we will
                    buy and decorate to
                              be our home

(I like to picture us there on our own)
                        it keeps me focused
                        and warms my bones
        look how we've grown

Paul?                do you dream in colours.               Yes I do.
I ask?                do you smell your dreams.            To be filled in by you.
Paul?                do you like women.                         Yes I do.
I ask?                do you know yourself.                    To be filled in by you.
Paul?                do you have favorit food.               Yes I do.
I ask?                do you taste what you think.          To be filled in by you.

                                               Just some examples for you all
                                                                          from me this man called Paul.

You're my little pal,
One I pray and care for so!
We're favourite friends!

*~Marian~

I can feel the music swirling inside,
Splashing up against the glass,
splitting apart,
Explosions in miniature
knocking around inside my head.

If I turn over the tumbler,
will the notes spill out,
wash the floor,
cool my heels as a liquid blessing?
an offering to the first god who’ll take it—
I’m not picky anymore.

Or will it stay, suspended
in this rarefied atmosphere,
an elixir of life, almost oxygen,
not quite enough to breathe?

If I get close enough,
the notes will knit themselves into my bones
pour through this frail skin
and remake me into a creature fluid and beautiful.

I can hear my mother’s voice,
“Turn off the music,” she says,
“I can’t think through all the noise.”
But I also hear a promise—
Just give me this,
my heaven, drowned in light.

Just let me get close enough,
let me break the glass against your floor,
And I will take the blood and the glass,  
I will weave you a castle,
And this one, finally, this one, will be right.
And we could disappear inside.

Yes, make me into a storm or a song or a broken glass,
turn me into a handgun or a time machine or
those last few stitches in the kind of wound that wouldn't heal.

And I will forget, I will be what I promised,
when we were young, and still remembered the old prayers.

you deserve a novel,
but these words suffice:
you thief.