We welcome the girl,
alone it would seem,
like a seed in the updraught,
whole worlds lie beneath.

Here is the girl,
A mind pregnant with dreams,
as she crosses the bridges,
connecting the streams.

There lands a girl,
ghouls taunt, ghouls tease,
"let go of this love, girl,
be rid of these dreams."

Come see the girl,
speaking tounges through machines,
white draped over candy,
embracing the terminal dream.

Heres lies the girl,
most wouldn't believe,
the ghouls taunts a mere whisper now,
dream easy, love freely... my sweet.

time kaliedescopes
yesterdays, nows and
tommorows jumble
in glittering jewels
hopes from earlier
become wistful dreams
hopes for later, mists
to be gathered in butterfly nets
dreams of now circle like
koi in a  pond,
hypnotic in their gliding
silent world

we stand on the precipice
waiting for echoes to return
waiting for an updraught
of heady confidence
to give us impetous
to allow us spread
our gossamer wings
we wait for the sun
to warm us, to bring the rush
of blood to our heads
so that we may jump
and soar in the yonder
so that our feet may feel
the caress of  impossibilty
and clouds can tickle our soles

we wait...

I wrote her lyrics on the back
of a postcard. Half of them were
mine, the other half stolen from
an undisclosed source by the sea.
I meant to finish the piece with
hope or a splintered olive branch,
but instead I changed hands
and wrote illegibly:
I expect to hear from you
next time you are bored
or alone.

It has been four years now
and I haven't heard that song on
the radio. It has been four years
and the letterbox remains closed
like the reluctant mouth of a
four-year-old in a dentist's chair.
I haven't seen the doctor for a long time
and often I know that I am dying.
I close my eyes and slow my breath:
there are stellar clouds and old
Arcturus is falling from the sky.

The farmer's truck is offloading pigeons,
descending the cages as they fight
for the freedom of an updraught.
I watch it behind a television screen
and I see acceptable nature through
my parent's back window. I have learned
to experience everything behind
a screen door, to keep out mosquitoes
and compassion for far-off deaths:
Twenty-four dead in dust cloud,
as freedom spreads to the East.

I wrote her a letter the day before
my wedding and told her the whole
affair was simply to get a mortgage
and to have a reason to shave.
I knew she would likely have moved
address, or else threw out my envelopes
along with pizza leaflets and
charity bags. I wrote clearly with
my better hand:
*I have found a place to rest my wings,
but they still cramp at the thought
of a cloud.