Standing in the dark
Living with my void
Afraid of the mirror
Of all it destroyed

Crying in my shadows
Stinging tears of pain
Flowing down my face
Time and time once again

Trying hard to understand
The bleakness of my day
Uncertain of why this life
Decided they had to take her away

So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains,
      Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
      That lately fettered were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
      And colored coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigor, youth, and spright,
      That are but looked on by his light.

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

The boy across the room
He thinks you're really sweet
Why don't you go say "hi?"
Because you are too shy.

He gets up out of his seat
And starts to come my way
I feel my face turn hot
And I hope he has something to say
But then he stops short
To talk to the girl in front
I bury my face in my book again
Trying to hide a grunt

But that's when he walks away
And towards me once again
And that's when I remembered
That girl's his cousin!
I get flustered again
He's coming down the isle
Then he looks me in the eye
And smiles that god-sculpted smile
I'm positive this time
He's coming for me
But I can't look away
What's *wrong with me?!
But still
I don't know what he wants
My mind is racing
Is he going to ask me out?
Are we going to start dating?

That's when he leans close

And whispers in my ear

"Can I borrow a pencil?"

"Yeah.... Here.."

I'm trapped
Inside a house
With a million
Rooms
But behind
Some doors
Only darkness
Looms

Every room I
Enter
Is a chapter
Of my life
But it's always
A gamble
When there was
A lot
Of strife

Ever had
A day
You wanted to last
Forever?
Well in this house
Days never end
Ever.

But the room
You enter
Makes all the
Difference
But all the doors look
The same
Nothing varied
In their appearance

A place like this
Would drive most people
Crazy
But it's
A constant reminder
Of how I've been
So lazy

The thing I like
Most of all
Is the space
Between
The Door and
The wall

The door frame
Is the best place
Of all
It reminds me how old
I was
And even
How tall

But my only
Wish
Is to go back
In my past
To fix all the bad
I have to relive
So I can make good times
Last

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less—
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon the spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody—
Then—ah, then, I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight—
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define—
Nor Love—although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining—
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

1422

Summer has two Beginnings—
Beginning once in June—
Beginning in October
Affectingly again—

Without, perhaps, the Riot
But graphicker for Grace—
As finer is a going
Than a remaining Face—

Departing then—forever—
Forever—until May—
Forever is deciduous
Except to those who die—

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.