A soft flame flickers,
azure wax forms torrid streams,
dripping down they go.

Somedays,
even when we lay side by side
underneath thick blankets,
we are on opposite ends of the earth.
The warmth our bare legs generate,
rubbing together with each shift in bed,
serves as a reminder
of how close we are physically,
yet we are 24,000 miles a part.
I yearn to close this distance,
but I don’t know if I have the strength
to make a fool’s journey.

Skyscraping popplers
bow their leafless tops and creak
from harsh, shrilling wind.

Puddles fill pockets
where footprints carved soggy mud,
rippling with rain.

Smoke wafts lazily
from chimney tops, blending with
mold’s pungent perfume.

Electric branches,
streaking the overcast night--
CRACK! The walls vibrate.

Only when dawn’s light
bleeds gold and pink horizons
does the storm pass.

shade shadows
of dark skin
head neck
chest hips

darken rolls
of stomach flesh
blow away
charcoal dust

curve calf
over seat
blend fold
of white sheets

steady hands
sketch toes
crescent nails
foreshorten soles

erase

sometimes
                                                       ­                         my
                                     ­ brain
                       doesn’t
                                                       ­     work

right
                                                ­                               and

                             my

                                              thoughts

     ­                                         scatter

               ­                                                    like
                               beads

                                     spilled
                               on
                                                              ­                 tile

floor

bruises don’t often
appear on the surface.
strip away
her face,
her skull,
to reveal the battered,
rotting
brain of a girl
warped
into believing
abuse
is a normal aspect of life,
like pouring milk
into a bowl of cereal
for breakfast.

A walk through the woods
reveal a solitude that I yearn,
like how snow craves a
safe spot to rest on needles
of bowing pine trees.
His howling gusts transform
into silence by a frozen lake,
where a doe scouts for
breaching grass with her fawn.
And just for a moment, as
the sun rises and illuminates
hardened beads of water
clinging to spiderwebs,
I can close my eyes and
breath in--not tobacco and
*****--but moistened earth
and rotting wood.
You are free, the woods whisper.