we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

Another dream about
You
That’s no surprise

Since you dominate
The world behind
My eyes

i think that people take their love for granted
because i—
i’ve spent every waking night
of every aching month
dressed in every shade of you except your touch
i love and lose and hurt
and lust
your memory cannot sustain—your memory
is not enough—
to simply have your presence is the
thing for which i blow—
on candles
angel numbers, dandelions—even snow

and why, i always wonder
do so many that i know
take their love nearby for granted—
that’s one thing i’ll never know

I’ve laid in the fields of our dying mother


watching as our gods wither into an  epoch  


masses set out to remember


but in time when stripped of their flesh


all will be forgotten


as they are  exposed to their mortality