poem

in a climate of hunters we became prey. out in the headlights we lost our way. did you not see the signs. did you see the threshold. once we were crossed, we forgot we were bold. time was much louder then. as were we. could nothing restore what we meant to be. no escape. no remorse for our public display. living. working. dreaming. the hunters are on their way.

poem

this is
where i am today

not beyond
or between words

though they may
seem too small

they contain me
just as you do

and yet

i take as much space
as i can

and yet

you expand

until I am gathered
safely in

dreaming of
new words

to contain you.

Poem

This is a time for exile. A time when insomnia makes sense and any light is welcome. This is a time when weather pauses for silent reflection and songs repeat themselves for fear of being misunderstood. This is a time for discretion and decay. A time to delete all you can until you are back to the body and soul you came in. A time for beginnings you can believe in.

Poem

This time of year, there are no peaches.  All the trees are in various stages of undress. And the moon tends to drink too much and talk too loud. This time of year, you need a secret alphabet. Legal counsel for all affairs of the heart. And a crisp, clean alibi for anything you might do. This time of year, I count down the days. I leave the candles alone. I wear your name again.