Does the dais
Of your tor
Raise sweet hell? Or
Does that relief on the wall
Implicate you
Like some thing winged and won
Telling your story for you?

Meet me in a Carolina, love, let the silk of your lips greet me,
And without words you can tell me how much you missed me
I’ve been tossing and turning; Crying out for you while I’m sleeping and
Momma’s awful worried, love.

So I’ll catch my bus while you hop your flight
So you can meet me somewhere far away where the sky’s bright

And after all those falls you’ve taken,
I think you could use someone to hold you…
Love, I will gladly, happily, eagerly volunteer.

Til twinkle pinkie rosebuds turn shrubbery so wild
wilder than the fume upon which the moonglade
climbs gloomy tide to make welcome of the night
until the little birds sing your name
then times be as happy as flame
One goldfinch and 3 white pigeons
a colourful macaw parrot and falconet
or the black crowncrane of large pinions
soul's fleeting harbinger of the lorikeet
type, as i await the little birds sing
The whole of my being approves
by the star shining in northerly clime
as in clinging on tight to a feeling so true
of grim death in moment so prime
until the birds vocalize your name
only then shall I not feel the disdain
Patience robs the clamouring chest
heels are still weary and cold in rest
and soon little birds send me tweets
by the dawn chorus of early birds' beats
shall one become happy and gay

What kind of warning signs were you expecting?
     Would she pour her mistakes
         into a crystal dish
            and set them before you?
Would she hang makeup stained
    pillow cases out of her window
        each morning?
Would she break skin
     below the hem lines
        with the hope
            that you would notice?
We don't often get
    the warning signs
       that our eyes are trained to see.
We don't get warning signs at all.
     we get wake up calls
we get fists full of cold pills
seen from under the bathroom stall.
We get to make phone calls
with seconds to spare.
We get to shake so violently
that our hands forget they are hands.
We get to answer seemingly
unimportant questions
to dispatchers who hear this
       all the time.
We get to wonder
if survival instincts are real.

We get to wonder
why anyone  anywhere
would ever name their daughter
                 Rosemary.

Let the rain fall over my head
Take my hands and put me in bed

I tried reading, I tried counting sheep
Sing me a song so I fall asleep

My hands are sweating, hug me instead
Play with my hair like my mom always did

Don't leave and stay until the morning
Until the sun rises, and the birds start singing
And the rain stops, stay until the morning
Until the sun rises, and the birds start singing

And don't forget; after you walk out of my bed
To open my windows and kiss me in my forehead

Not even a millennium
would cut through your cranium
I'd have to be on lithium
to withstand your oblivion

One of these days I won't be so alone.
—
See you at my tombstone.