The fluidity
with which you speak of leaving
the allowance i feel for feeling
i am at once disbelieving and disavowed
I beg,
but did I mean for your return
I sit alone
and see complex perplexity...
I know it must be love.

Time in youth we
need the speed
in death we try to slow
in youth we feel invincible
in age we feel washed up
In youth we often
fail to see
the fragileness of all
in dimness of the ages
we see clearly how we fall.

I have more than seventeen
Poems that
Mention me watching
You draw
-
Tracksuit pants
My sweater
Knitted socks
Ponytail
Colouring in some creation
With the tip of your
Tongue peeking out
From the side of your mouth
As always when
Concentrating
-
Light from the stove
Flicking curiously
Upon your person
Dry firewood heat in
Contrast to the outside
Midwinter
Beading our foreheads
At times
We were that old couple
On the picture
You cried when
I showed you
-
You are in truth the most
Beautiful person
I've ever consumed
With my every
Sense
You made me
Giant
Hero
Loved
Admired
Forgiven
For so long

I'll miss you.
*******, little girl.
I'm really
Going to
Miss
You.

I walk around touching.
I walk around touching objects
-Hanging or resting-
That carry shards of our
History in their origin.
My hands remember
The warmth of your back
Against my palm.
Sun lotion between my fingers,  
Denmark. Summer.
You tasted like xcide and your  
Mother's Marlboro Light.
Laughed.
Kissed me;
Soft but hard. Soul to my soul.
We were so completely happy.

This quill pen you made me
To inspire my words.
Draw us with your poetry.
To write about you drawing
A picture of me writing
About you.
Taking in; transferring.
I've written you
Volumes.
Volumes.

Picture.
I touch and smile.
Trace your face with
My fingers, your
Mouth. My God, your
Mouth...
You let me touch your
Teeth when you smiled.
I cried then, even during the
Good years.

I take it in. Dig deeper in memories
To strain my soul, and tattoo... and
Claim these moments as
Mine forever; graven into
The marble tablets of
My mourning mind.
Feeling the farewell with
My every fibre
And gaping, face soaking wet,
At the Heavens in a
Silent scream of
**** You God! She's gone!
GONE! FUUUUUUUCK!

Like some kind of miner or
****** of some sorts
Craving pain and beauty in
Equal handfulls,
Tearing and ripping
At the remains of something
That just days ago
Wasn't dead.

An end for every beginning.
The price of being; to one day
Not. Still some eat their cake
To keep it.

I have been more mis- than
Understood in my life.
I speak in symbols, meta-thoughts.
Poetry is

Not for the ones who imagine
Grudges so they have something to
Hold. All I know is that this ****
Plane will

Refuse to go down with us in it.
If it stops, it stays up here
Until we make up our minds to
Land and keep loving. Or jump.

poetry is the only thing that really makes sense.
writing
trying to make sense
of what we're doing
what it means
cough cough
lifeismeaningless
see im not really sure of a lot of **** things to be honest
just floating along
cemented to this worldliness by gravity
made of chemicals
space dust and star stuff
wondering
wandering
"what is anything" she inquires
to a poem written a thousand times
writing to be revised
writing to make sense
this doesnt make any ******* sense

because

on some dateless dawn
away from the mown swath at the edge of the road,
grass tall in the meadow, gold already and leaning, each piece seeming
to whisper some secret one might hear if close enough
as blades nodded in unison towards scrambled trees at the edge of the clearing

i  was a deer there, hiding, feral, eating secrets
for a moment then, free