In the white theatre of the gale,
a barn’s vermilion gates
and the woolen scarlet of kin
stand like beacons to the lost.

The air is a script of whirling ash,
yet in the hearth’s small kingdom
rosehip constellations drift
through the dark gold sea of tea —

                      omens of return,
of warmth wrested
          from the storm’s        
                               dominion.





.

The years have grown
moss over my name,
my transgression carved
into memory’s vestibule
always finding there
one chair turned away,
its back carved with
the shape of your absence.



.

Hair like weather,
clothes like a hearth —
I hold the street open
and let its poems walk past.





.

Stay with Me

Your touch is arson in my bones
Melting steel, surrendering throne
Choose: my chaos or endless night
Either way, love
— you’re my excruciating light






.