A stiff breeze
Blows the final leaf from the willow
Onto the grey St. Augustine grass.

I’m staring
From the park bench;
Building a nest
Of thorns, bottles, and crutches;
A cold spot for my thoughts to rest.

Unlike the toupe on the ducks head;
And the child chasing the fowl’s feather,
Followed by a Mother’s loving glance.

Brings a warm wrinkle to fight a stiff breeze;
Today I won’t go grey with the grass.

I don’t trust nature
If I shook hands with the wind,
Winter would bite my fingertips.

It took every inch
Of the stripped branches;
Now scratching the horizon
For the chance to grow again.

No color, no snow
Only straw.
Just stich all the brittle
Broken leaves of fall
Into a quilt
To clothe a city of scarecrows.

And inside,
If my house catches fire,
I will rest by the burning wood.
Outside, it’s a cold that could drive
Fireflies to return to their hive in the sun.

a lonely heart
thinks of the girl with eyes like diamonds in the rain,
and her eyelashes that float like dandelions.

thinks of the day
she ****** the warmth from the sky,
and watched the sunset down her throat.
her tongue broke like waves on the shoreline,
“I don’t know if I love you.”

lies awake,
up late, on a yearlong night
pouring alcohol,
trying to put his pain to rest,
only to watch his wounds erupt into fire,
and give birth to
a child caught in a trap of burning bones,
waiting for someone to hold him and say, “I know you.”

he wanders a desert,
chasing mirages, that are only clouds of text messages,
that swarm like nagging mosquitos,
before vultures pick him apart.
and he knows
no one wants to adopt homeless shadows
before the dawn.
and now,
deep behind the ribbed gates of his chest,
his veins are snakes in the garden.
looking to eat the end of
a lonely heart.