“What I Carry”

Some days the loss is heavy,
like stones in my chest.
Other days it’s light,
like sunlight through leaves.
Both are true. Both stay with me.
And somehow, so do I.

tulip blaze of red—
his hand still in the petals,
train whistle fading

Moonlight folded,  
a mouth purses shut.  
    Ears rise,  
                corn listens.  
The scarecrow whispers—  
dreams scatter like chaff.

I sit back,
a shadow at the table,
gathering the stillness
as if it were mine—

“Unspoken Units”

You measured me
in teaspoons of time—
a stir, a pause,
a dissolve.

I answered in grams of silence,
packed tight
like sugar in a spoon,
but never sweet.

We never spilled, but the table held
our residue.

I fold the silence into paper,
address it to your absence,
and let the ink wander
where my voice could not.

Every word is a bridge half‑
built across distance,
collapsing into the river
before you ever arrive.





.

the scrolls tilt on their shelves
        as the ground shifts,
                   glass trembling

with the weight of heirlooms and
wings—beyond the frost line:
                     a small planet turns,

its orbit tugging at the tags that rise
                         —like butterflies
   from these wrists of stone.




.

cosmic stew
goulash for you
sometimes ghoulish
most assuredly true
so Me-times imbue
quite a flawless fondue

seasonless

           constellation

                          silence

                                   spoken

poems for money,
no kicks for free —
ink on the counter,
pulse on a fee.
y ‘want the spark?
then tip the key.
poetry’s no money-tree