I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it
soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does
cannot drift the way I'd like, floating free
as dandelion seeds wild in these fields.
I hear words like arrows piercing in.
I feel shocks and waves
the sea that comes to swallow.
I face jangled places
of these fears again
amid storms of grays and clouds
and after the washing rains
the birds come singing, flying.

Guitar buried in effects
Women mired in makeup
Men wrapped in ego
Woodwork dripping with shellac
Seafood dipped in breading
Carpet drowning in dust
The baptized cleansed in water
The son copying the father
A publican garnering trust
A 62' John Deere seized with rust
The dead becoming dust
A poker hand royal flush
An over and under combination
A gods abomination
Traipsing the woodline for a spell
A five o'clock trip from hell* ...

the satirical poet's violin
was remarkably played
by our Beryl's fabulous bow
so gifted its string

I write this as she sleeps
next to me, with me,
but not with me,
as a testament to the light
she spreads across my pages,
chest moving
in and out,
in and out,
breathing kindness into
these words with her own.
The object of my attention,
affection,
she will rise tomorrow
to the surprise of post-midnight
poetry, hopefully
bringing a smile to her face
as she does mine,
and our small habits
across hundreds of miles
unfold
to become larger rituals,
grander ceremonies,
separated by mere inches.