What he knows to be her lamp,
Exhaled bronze light.  
Obsessively unflinching mid-range stare,
Front teeth pushed forward, from the placement of his tongue over the years.

A vague un-answer,
Obfuscating, leftward facing eyes complete with matching set of lips,
In an unusually high voice mentioning predictables

Dragging behind the boat.
Purple refracted nylon extra tensile-strength line.

Half mesh half polyester, with a carefully closed-door shave.
Couch ridden drone strike 3 floors due north.
Considering the symbolism of when I got my coat back from her room. Saved her the trouble of throwing it off her bed.

Forward through brick, laid algorithmically and FedExed in, he could have an answer but would have significantly less automobile.
Both first and last name lower case tonight and many others.  

Silent E Novocained.
An on-again off again lightbulb.  Colander as lamp-shade.

Sunday 5:47 p.m.
Opine - usually ends up more
Laborious than
Arborous.

Sunday 11:14 p.m.
I know your peripheral view
Is better than
Not saying hello,
Until I'm far enough away
To hear only the timber and not the tongue.

Thursday 1:12 a.m.
Who is Echo
And who is Narcissus
When their names are the same?

Tomorrow,
I'll cough up blood.
Disavow something. Anything.
Just for kicks.

Flares of chalk
Softly blink the words,
"We are open"

They're gone now.
It's like it never happened.
If the metaphor is true, is the simile?

Mostly, it sickens me that
our notes sent back and forth are
measurably more pleasant than conversation
We share in person.

I bet that paper lotus is gone.

Interchanged sentence fragments
both homeopathic and calculated by lamplight.

I bet that bookmark is still in the same place.

Even comparing you to Ivan would be a stretch,
Who are we kidding.
Dmitri.
But that’s still not the name I call you ante meridiem.

I bet Freud was right, but I never called myself a boy.  

A . Eb.  Six steps.  
Slonimsky dedicated so many pages to you.

I guess I will distill the Ocean
for salt.    

I can’t say any of this to you,
the most honest I’ll ever be
is in a poem I hope you’ll never read.

Today, it appears that
The most meaningful parts of our relationship are the moments
Of shunned silence.

She walks away from me while
Pacifier bridges mouth and ear.
Shallow communication is all but
Prescribed at this point.
Leaving me to face the deracinated remains.

A resonant black
Field lies dormant in wait while
Words exchange above

A sparrow that flies
In distant lands, is still
A sparrow that flies.

Droning inebriation,
donning plaid; multiplicity arranged.
At the same time,
if this is my solipsistic vision
I'm okay with that.

You couldn't have narrated
the ones I won?

Question marks scrawled on
pictures tied to
the ankles of pigeons,
and shards of smoke signals.

I took a walk looking for a reason to come back home,
And searched for Beatrice along the way.

I too, a wayfarer looked for a response that cannot be homogenized
And sorrowed for breathlessly asking, “Then when?”

I told another woman, “Let Freud’s analysis reach that conclusion”, but how?
And subliminal feelings become another threatening worry.

I thought a word, lachrymose, finite, and resonant. That concisely besmirched her.  
And subsequently forgotten, but always tacit, “Why?”

I think about why looking for a reason to correspond becomes hopeless.
And Sisyphus falls backwards against the weight…