gazing at this man
i notice
behind his eyes
you can see
the way he loves is almost like wind and rain.

it is soft and gentle,
pure and fearless,
passionate but innocent.

as he looks up
gaze meeting mine
i hope
his wind and rain
longs for my earth and fire.

the moon is gone
and the crescent my fantasy
for so long, never seeing you
the time has finally come
for me to have forgotten your face
when night is risen and moon is full
i imagine you there
your soft, beautiful face
gorgeously round and pointed and soft
the arch of your brow
and your wailing eyes
digging so deep into my own
that in my reflection yours are buried
formed from little craters and debris
historically indifferent
they must be your eyes
i was crying the last time i looked at you
you staring at me, indifferent, remorseful
i am crying now, looking at the moon
it must be you up there
eight months and twelve days
june twenty-eighth
july nineteenth
i hate that i can't remember your face
and i mourn you still
just by looking up
to that same moon
i fear the day that i might see you again
that i may be reminded of your gentleness
that i may hear the nectar of your voice
i can never stop myself from you
can never hold back from admiring you
in my entirety, you, the moon
my only beacon, beloved anchor
but the moon is gone
and the crescent only my fantasy

This is the world we live in
This is the world we end in
We'll end with it,
And it with us,
The absolute of nothingness.

This is the only comfort
I can offer you.
The finality of it all.
And, you know, these days,
Comforts are few.

When the world is burning,
and retribution is coming.
Those four men and all their horses
Barely held behind the gate.
Soon, there will be no wants to fulfill
Or desires to sate. Just nothing and ruin and what is left of our undoing.

The end is coming, but
That's alright. The fires
Persist beyond our door.
These are the only comforts
I can offer you:
Knowledge of the eventual end
And arms you can rest in
Til we both undo.

So, can we sleep while the world ends?
The distant sounds of grief
Have not yet reached our window.
Just hold me close, and I will, you
Though the world's set alight
I'll rest easy in your arms tonight.
In bed, embraced.
As the fires rage.

This is how the world ends:
Not with a bang,
But with a kiss goodnight,
With a soft "I love you,"
And a pause;
An eventual, whispered "I love you too."

And when the end comes,
Garishly and unkind
We'll sleep through it,
Peacefully and sublime.

I rather be a single, petite daisy,
compared to a bouquet of thorny,
seductive dripped red roses
who get all the bees attention
while I get a beautiful, delicate butterfly

Mom.

I miss your strength.

You were the rock
unbudged against my raging seas.

You were the water
that quenched my fire before I could burn.

Endlessly you gave yourself to me.

Becoming the sun when I had none.

In times like these
I call such strength
to be born inside me.

The
          sometimes
          tremulous
glimpses of surprise,
I think
     what a book it would make.

I hear the late afternoon cheer
         the honest type
somewhere                                                          
                  lurking behind
                                old Sixth Avenue Road.
I suppose
it is not just a phenomenon of nature that goes instinctively on,
not the appalling detail of any large human scheme, eroded by schedules
But I accept it as one of the miracles.
(Which I never see anywhere else)