crystal lavender tears
that melt as dewdrops
in honeysuckle fields. They’ve
cried them for years.

Buterflies cry
a kaleidoscope of colors
in patterns of green, blue, red
purple and yellow. They've cried
them over every gal and fellow.

Butterflies cry
in flits of beaming light
that dance in the shadows
of shimmering moonlight. They've cried them
all night.


Butterflies cry
all by themselves, spreading
their wings to cover their felt. Their tears stick
like glitter to all that they touch.

Butterfies cry not often but much.

as a kitten swimming upstream
****** as marionette on a string
lower than the Mariana snailfish
feeding on the ocean floor
When did life become a chore?  

I’m bare
as the trees in winter
colder than an Arctic breeze
sour as Lisbon lemon drops
When did I blow it all out like a sneeze?

I'm lifeless
as a mannequin in a department store window
slower than a tortoise walking a tightrope
falling as the autumn leaves
black as a lump of coal
hung over as the eaves on my rooftop
When is this feeling ever going to leave?

because it doesn’t fit
in the present. It’s old and worn
and spent, as us. Blown in the wind
as dust. It lies on the grass

like a sausage casing, without
the meat and spice. It doesn't have
a life. I weep as I look at it. All the years
I put into it. And now to have it laid. The hardest

part is walking past it.  It lasted as
an elastic stretched beyond the shape
it took on. I pick it up and hold the emptiness
in my hands, and stroke the mold of the

withered band. Memories is all I'll
take. And grow a new skin in
the wake of yesterday, just as the snake  
does. But it's hard to shed this love.

vultures, not swans. Their eyes
are lumps of coals. They’ve black hearts
and no souls.

They see
woman as little pits. Once they take
the flesh of the cherry they spit out the stone,
flossing their teeth with the stem, waxing their bone.

They see
the world in gnarly
twisted weeds, as red herrings
and blind sheep.

They see
themselves as Swiss cheese,
razor blades and purple haze,
new money and smoke screens,
the lottery, climbing ladders and home teams.

I’d like to chip off a piece
to see what’s underneath. I think
beyond the gloss he’s white
as a sheet. They stripped him down,

spackled up his cracks, and filled
in his holes. They papered him in red tin soldiers
and vaulting poles. And when the paper yellowed
they rolled on purple paint. Coated it

in arms of an Italian saint. It went with the décor
of hanging wild horses on the wall and cherry
furniture. But spilled ink and perfume raised
the temperature. In darkness things are black.  Don't look

back. The cobwebs hang. I see gray sky,
and think it'll rain.

on. She’ll blind you
with the light. But when the sky
is tar from the moon spilling Dr Pepper
she’s a flicker, no bigger than a burning

wick from a solitary candlestick. She’s
a greasy pig that isn’t fit for bacon. A soda
can that has the top popped off
after it’s shaken. Her extremes have you

beside yourself., upside-down and
inside-out. But you'll beg for her as a
street drunk asking for money to buy
fifty-proof nips. She'll flip the switch on you

then stick as Elmer's glue, like lint
on your sweater. With all that fuzz you can
make a glove to wear in winter. Then the warm
turns to ice as she splinters. And pokes you

in your eyeball with the shards. She's like
a deck of playing cards. Every shuffle turns up
an ace or a dud.

Strangled by the wishes
I made.  Mangled by promises.
Wasted on yesterday. All the years
I believed in you. I drowned in the lakes

I dream of you. When you’re
mobile is strung with stars and moons
and you’re sung lullabies you can't separate
the truth from lies. There’s not a star

that shines. The moon placed shades
on the sun. And made braids with the blades
of grass, so there’s bare patches as I walk.
Big enough to sit in. Deep enough to sink in.