The makeshift ashtray

A better word for purgatory

something to know

Like landing safely on the ground
from a fall,
by easy laughter,

the drawl of a return,
known and gone
if for the loss
of random intimacy
that wakens us,

true like the rail
of steel at our stop
at its end
the surprise of life,

as shy rain would fall
upon eager shoulders.

the birch tree

I set us free
from within
a box of worn paper,
last season’s festive crown,
I remembered seeing

through revolutions of
Christmas lights falling
from each eye,
images appearing big
and small at once,
a kaleidoscope

of our time
together, we grasped
the last branches
of the tree, falling
on surrendering snow,
you brushed my cheeks dry
when you showed me
in a field of harvested corn
the rhythm of goodbye

a familiar pattern above,
our laughter a fresco
my victories over last night’s game
our final embrace before sleep,
in the crescendo of a rainy night

I push crumbling earth, eager
for conclusion,
the familiar a stranger
whose departure defies
instruments of light

there you stood,
a requited return.

making the road

I thought of you
in a cab home,
it is the small luxuries,
like leaves that turn
from red to purple

in an instant
I thought of you
at the bottom of a hill,
arrested breath,
only in your smile

part heart, part soul,
to say the weight

of forgotten truths
I thought of you

in a world away
and in a bed of fallen leaves,
lines are drawn, with light
in relief,

I thought of you,
on drives through canopies of trees
slippery rocks
and moss grown stone
our smiles aligned, I

the many colors I saw
on my afternoon walk,
with clouds in our hands,
I thought of you,

where the gods live.

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
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
against a schoolyard wall
her fists knitting a reprieve,

at the opening of a door

for shadows too big for
under covers
by floating feet,

the fire does not burn.



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

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
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
a lost melody

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.


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