is where we meet once a week,
discreetly. Where he works with his
hands to create, shape me and
the wood. Though I’ve a few splinters

he needs to trim. I stand outside the double
doors, waiting for him. Anxious as a bucking
horse. But playing it cool. Not so he thinks
I’m the wood for the fuel.  I could have come

around the back, or any other door many
have traveled through before. But no. I wanted
to enter his private part, the one with the saw
and the drill. The one where he performs all

his skills. The one where his wife leaves
him alone. The one where all the others
do not go. The one where the sawdust
snows. I like this clandestine place –

there’s nothing sexier than a man in his cave.

I've drank the finest of wine
Down to the bottom of the bottle
Only to witness an ocean alone
Barely surviving my own hands

A fire burned through my viens
That was blew out by the wind
Breezing through the leaves
A calmness that sits with me
Before calmness dismisses me

I walked across the tallest blue sky
Where wide winged birds soar high
Til promises of white clouds turn grey
And so there I fell with the rain
Dripping through the lowest gutter

Many times I was buried, lying in dirt
Like a grave, needing no help
Finding the dark inside of myself
But I always rise with the blades
Of the greenest fresh spring grass

No matter what feeling I catch
None of them seem to everlast

It’s all a dream
Heartache and everything
Still I sing