my front porch is a broken candelabra

lights that used to form a pattern

now waypoints for sore eyes to wander

in upheaval

there’s something in the driveway

if i ask nicely it’ll take us nowhere

every friday

and i run my hand along the wall fixtures

with the wall switches on

but still in the dark

maybe watch the strange weather effect panes of glass

and i do that monday tuesday wednesday thursday saturday

and sunday

sometimes i listen to the thing in the drive tick

never turn

if i need to get out

ya know

see ****

thats what i do

see ****

lots of it

before you know it you have set up a world
of selves and others
where one of you – more often more – is bound to get hurt.

the stories telling themselves
apart.
the whole remaining inconsequential.

the body will not be accepted
as easily as day
gives itself up.

treading the shifting waypoints
the choices waysides of occasions
of partials.

A line begins,
is drawn,
ends.
An endless,
infinite number
of waypoints
between.
Lines leave no legacy;
a small black streak
to be erased.

The last of my line,
I leave no legacy;
my poems are my children

Silver lines stretching infinitely
Atoms of dust
Stars crushing themselves alive
Checkered across the plain
Webbed waypoints supporting the tapestry

Life among the stars spinning fast
Fading brilliant lights
Scattered dust among the skies
Pondering an infinite cycle of why
Oblivious to the Weaver's gentle nudge
A cosmic string intertwined with dusty lives
Cradled by gravity to keep stomachs tight

Stories of old
Creation's magic and a socerer's stone
Fervent prayers of desperate souls
Each cry an echo vibrating a string
Of the untold and grieving nights
And heroes and villains of the heart
Empty throes if only known
The pain would surely go

A Weaver of majesty
Knows her tapestry
Each fiber taut or loose
Is a making of her own
If gravity should let us know we aren't alone
Our stories will never grow old.