Doll eyes, he says
You have doll eyes

Of course.

Glassy, blind doll eyes
waiting for any random child to squeeze me to life

Bring me reaction.

My pupils hold tiny negatives of him.
He checks them for impairment.

Sitting side-by-side on a damp porch step
he tells me the story of the spiders

plunging mouth fangs into live, bound captives
melting and digesting their insides
leaving an empty shell
Brittle, used and dead.

Intact from the outside

No, it wasn't love
Swept right across my heart,
a cartoon breeze
white swirling tail drawn over blue

No, it wasn't love.
But recognition flickered
from behind your
caricature eyes

Overlarge, to match
the head and grin and
those items held to define you
resembled a familiar shelf

where I rest my own desires
so,
close enough
to not swipe left

I bought a few sprigs of lavender tied with yarn from a boy outside the bookstore during the brightest days of summer.

The small decoration lay on a stack of books by the bed, scent fading with the passing days, inches from my pillow.

Meanwhile I ran about dusting and polishing, fluffing and waxing, making everything nice.

At night I fell into sleep moments after lifting my feet from the floor, forgetting all I dreamed.

If by this time next year we are strangers,
the tide having carried you away while I stood by scowling,
feet sinking in the sand,
cursing the moon for betraying me,
muttering to myself that I wanted you to go

I will immediately hope to
forget
all those days when

Under bright daylight

                    in the just right mood

                              surprise tinges of gold line your eyes

                                               soften your smile

                                                          ­     and shine your diamond soul

                                                               ­                          through the room

The sun comes up too early
dissolving the night from behind
suspending last night's sleepless
in a passing timeless bind

Two worlds outside the window
The new day and the past
Toss the covers and brew the coffee?
or plead with the stars to hold fast.

The dawn shines soft at first watch
casting the world a pale blue
By midday it glares down on burdens
pointing cruelly at an endless queue

But noonday passed behind curtains
holds bothers in dark sympathy
lets correspondence die in assumption
ignores bills to delinquency

Either way the moon hangs devoted
bides his time in faded plain sight
to whisper the patience of nightfall
hold the world in it's pitiful light.

I am the pebble
sunk in the clear slow spring
watching the warm sky
and the bright green grass beside

I am the pebble
low in the dirt murky water
cowering in swirling tides
when the banks are grey and far

I am the pebble
after the water has run dry
sighing into mud
while the sun rises round and hot

I am the pebble
at the eternal hour
melting fast to putty
just as the sky goes black

all i love i lose
all i know i feel
all i breathe i choose

Cate turned 41 three days into the (most recent) millenium.
A lot of people thought the world was going to end
              (something about computers or calendars)
It didn't.

She celebrated over a sparkling wine brunch
with friends she rarely
saw.  

They giggled relentlessly over the old jokes and
gracelessly     stumbled
over the o l d       jealousies.

                                                That­ time at the Chinese restaurant at
                                                midnight,
                                                              Wh­o saw him first?
                                                      Wasn­'t it Jane?
                                                           ­    Jane!
                                                Where has she gone, had anyone heard?

No one had but it didn't matter
(so long ago she had stood, placed the thick cloth napkin on the table beside her plate and excused herself to another universe)

Her alarm rang early the next morning:
jarring an artificial start to the day.
Cate wondered where she was for the
moment (before remembering)

joining two lines
smoothly, without ripple or gaping
seam, is the task of galaxies
and Artists.

watching the end and
beginning, gliding over the now,
suspending appearance
for truth

(inverting the mind's usual function).
And if it all goes
to hell?

*crumpling the wasted effort

There was a boy in our class no one liked.
Not even the teachers.  
Not even the good ones.  

He was a small kid with a chipped front tooth
too big clothes and third generation sneakers
Not even Mrs. Farris could love.

Not even Mrs. Farris,

Who taught music from behind the curtained stage of the cafeteria
wearing pretty clothes and a performance smile
No one could deny.

Not even Chris.

Not even Chris, who moved from his assigned lunch seat
brought fireworks on the field trip
and who said what he wanted
but probably couldn't read.

Chris went out for choir in the fifth grade
Like he had in fourth
when Mrs. Ferris turned him away.

Behind him in line to audition,
I cringed at the notes that creaked
and broke over his soul.

His voice was painful and
might have been carried by stronger singers
in the service of a 10 year-old's redemption.

But not even a fifth grade cafeteria choir
in poster board costumes would
hold a space in the risers for his conversion.

Chris wanted to be good then,
maybe for the last time,
And no one could hear him.

The cusp of seasons waxes a melancholy mind
each turn a little less sure how the sun hangs
in the sky over the homeward drive
low for a while then high
confusing time
Shows even at five and ten and twenty nine
when the world felt twice than alive
everything was always dying
Each pass the summer skies go undermined to autumn
then fall to ice beat back with new grass
wither in sun's fire
While inside the dishes and the laundry pile
hearts ply and lose desire
blind by days
to the ties of light and outline
perpetual arresting revise

there was a voice

that only spoke

to say everything

was wrong.


the line is long

the people waiting

unnaturally

bright.


the sky is gray

the weather is mild

the combination

strange.


your friends are gone

were never here

nothing is real only

fear.


after  

some time

it lost

the faculty

of meaning


but

for a while

kept

words.


run

slowly

nothing

is coming

until

ever

and

always

it

turned

a

rattling

hum

Driving home from baseball camp
the bright blue summer sky
makes everything crisp and clean and warm.

Thoughts drift by like dandelion dust and
disappointment peels from my soul gently:
a tissue lifted from a box.

Nothing is forever
and everything is wonderful.
Just look at the sky.