a falling boy's
measured out footprint,
slipping in vain search
for a breadcrumb of solace

lost is spring, and green,
and bird nesting,
lost is his mother's smile,
he breathes in deeply

a memory of trees,
an afternoon sun
emptied of fertility:
a high wood on its last, teetering legs

urban air is everywhere
and wishes to be free,
but we are all carbon emissions,
separate living-dying pieces

polluted hieroglyphics
with nothing to convey,
fragments of a prayer
with nothing left to say

I wonder if he
still sees me in his dreams

Or if he is
dreaming of another

Does the heat of
August burn his skin

Like his
cold absence burns mine

Why do I still ache
for him?

Oh darling one,
I fear I may have been
but a passing dream to
you

half full
almost empty
porcelain cracks
beautifully dripping
slowly in time
seconds away
still full

diagonally
wet lines slice the dry summer
storm rages; sun rests

The wind strikes from the sea.
There is a cold from our side.
Windows come to the north.

We want to overcome the distance,
to jump out on sails.
The big blue is opening for us.

We fall down pale with the breeze under our shirts.
Time was working against our will.
Slowly

we are landing
in this big jump out from overworking.
The seagulls are laughing at us with yellow beaks.