The makeshift ashtray

A better word for purgatory

reading by laughter

I clenched the edge
the weight of the moon
a ring around my finger
beneath an hourglass

made for the ocean,
a tear
glanced around beveled edges
knowing its exit,
down a tunnel of light it went.
True, like an arrow’s scar

I saw the blue in her profile
and wading through discarded
keepsakes of the heart,
the decay was both green
and past,
the elation of descent

with consent.
laying in our private field,
I touch.

for the nervous

This is my lie:

slippery light passed on a steel reflection
guilty,
smiles like sheep
on the wolf’s retreat,
today, I spoke

of grand mountains turning
from blue to white, to grey
in a finger’s moment
I said,
just as you see the rain
through the window,

I told her I liked her
red
hair
against a schoolyard wall
her fists knitting a reprieve,
I

cried
at the opening of a door

for shadows too big for
under covers
by floating feet,

the fire does not burn.

 

butterflies

We played catch
with afternoon rays
turning our eyes
into candles,

first to rise
beneath canopies of gold
and sandwiches with crisped corners,
a soul consents

a breath away
from heaven’s door,
feet wet from its cloudy waves
I pulled
a jacket tight,
against your salted cheek
and caught each mountain,

from some worlds
the letters rest,
as their hearts grow warm,
diamonds of ash
create an inheritance,

driftwood black
on a cold forest floor.

 

my first birthday

I held
my hand out

along a just
damp railing
I

lost myself
in tonight’s sunset
caught between

pink lights
in a hurry

and an ocean’s purple
against your soft brow,

I grew
until life was green, long
trails of a pupil’s map
of an early bird
after first blue

under a halo of black pearls
the rain sings.

 

favorite food

in my dream
I stood on the balcony
of a Parisian block

as easy as pictures
taken on graduation day,

her arm tight
fingers sweet like roses

young, first buds
dance
on a beach of fresh snow,

ships glide on
lily pads as big as death.

soft voices

when the two
sheets meet,
bending like static
electricity
a lost melody
floats,

blackened through the expanse
of always, still
the curve of the rope’s hook
a mesalliance

silenced by fate
the dark horse

cradled like a child
on the first night,

its light blinds
the fading praying
of the smallest among us,
naked under fur.

echo’s peace

two feet arise mid air
against pale yellow morning,
the beginning
twin to day’s slumber
its humble retreat
softened to

The hand that holds
an eternal camera
in the stars
shimmering rain

falls heavy
to the tune of our embrace
the moonbeam,
a dagger nestled
between our thighs,
through a glimpse
of our autumn tent

a golden bird returns
a continent for maps.

where the water meets

smeared black ink
spread in desert veins
rolls icicles,
heaven’s rare glass
signs
of a harvest promised,
first flowers for
the morning’s breast,
up a hill in circles
and old laughter,
same
sprints before rain
and tousled rugs,
grooves grey,
in slumber’s every breath.

snow day

at the last glimpse of the sun’s fold,

a thumb’s distance
makes the trees small, and
a night long
as summer love,

wrapped in watery threads
while eating
the first drop
sheets of light blind,
until

the opening of the first bud
drained a full
city block,
roots do sing,

gilded feathers in a waltz

our fire big,
made with
wood from the ocean;
landlocked treasures

the bottle in the sea

two, muddied by three days
of snow,
just dark enough
for a closing smile,
a day made
by the longing of the moon

led by purple islands, blotted
by each descent
spread like sand
found

by the bed’s end
glowing green,
dreams stay
with fingers slipped
in rungs of reflective ribbon,

to hushed keyholes
where owls sit
and watch a star’s beginning

outside, the silence
of crickets at sleep
writing curves
with frostbitten fruit

deep,
with mirrors of the sun
and bowed heads.

 

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