We march in a straight line.
Sleep inhibited by pounding
footfalls and cloudy breaths.
Stone beats on cold flesh
which beats on our hearts
as we beat beat beat away our troubles
to a drum thats lost its tune.
We sing songs that have no words.
We lie, about where we
have come from and where we are going.
We speak in circles until
we forget what we speak of,
what we speak of leaves our
tongues in smoke and ash
fallen from a sky lined
with something different than
the khol that lines eyes that reflect midnight
instead of starlight.

The drum has lost its beat.
We fall apart and the
north star that used to pull us
forward, onward, fades.
Our faces paler in the dawn light
reaching an oak tree we drop.
Return to our headstones
Earth, blood, bones become one again.
We are night.

I like to watch the small beetle
run in circles on my floor,
chasing the cat,
who is chasing it.
A power struggle and a stare-down
Every imperfection of the floor
is a mountain for the beetle.
Every dark underneath
a failure for the cat.
Neither plans to end the game
so neither one shall win it.

Two lines of  students exit
the   double   doors   of    a
different   brick    building
they   were  the   survivors
led     by     their   teachers
towards  busses,   one   for
each class. A girl  and  her
friend  look   back   at   the
darkened  roof  and  shield
their   eyes   from  morning
sun,  but  really  they  look
for dust from two buildings




they were told had collapsed.
Two yellow  lines  of  school
busses   fight  cars  for  space
in    the    small    parking   lot
Where    is     your     house?
Mom  is  crying  and  holding
Sarah’s   hand,  she  looks  so
small   and   scared  when  we
go   home   and   sit  amongst
toys,  as    if     blankets   and
barbies will  protect  us from
the   evil   that    has    ruined




   A twin skyline
     Two planes
     Two towers
       Two girls
     Two parents
  Too many lives

They hung the man today.
They say he hung the moon
he alit a glowing orb
dangled it from a star.

They hung a man today.
They say they hung the man
who ***** the women and stole the children
But, they say he owns the moon.

They hung the stars themselves,
painted every one.
But he hung the moon they say
the moon's face is his own.

They hung his life on a rope,
his life was but a strand, they say.
The moon and stars dropped tears of light
That’s why we no longer see a one.

They hung the man.
They say
They say
They say he's in the moon

I promise this time it
will be different,
Like how I can
assure you I won’t wait
with bated breath for
a text from you at 2 in the morning,
even though I know you
are asleep.
I assure you that I wont
use your old tee shirt as a pillow
then wear it the next day.
I can especially say
I will not leave a note
in the lunch I pack you
"I love you"
I can even promise that
I will just walk away
when I find her in
your bed again.

But I can’t promise that
I won’t steal your Wellies
and waltz out to your
garden and meet your
dog who lazily barks at
passing cars,
the one I taught to fetch
and is my best friend
the one who will
miss me most when
we are over.

It was one of those
fall days where
leaves poured off trees
and onto our heads
even though there was
no wind. The sun
was baking the leaves
to the crispness of
brown and gold

And we were best friends.
we strolled in amiable
silence like we always would,
take a picture,
walk some more.
We reached a *****,
took it with ease,
agreeing to climb to the
top together to
grasp hands and lock
fingers to make the
climb a little easier.

We got to the top.
you asked me a question
I could not answer
I had no way to know
or the right to respond,
like the leaves had no right
to stay on the trees that day.
You had to turn to
hide tears I didn't think
I could bring.
Dropped my hand
and walked away.

We are mismatched
like the socks that come out of the dryer
One gray with red spots
The other blue with pink.

I feel that we must, somehow,
go together because
after all we are both socks.

Maybe it’s just some static cling
but somehow I have gotten myself
******* in you,
and you are ******* in me.

Wool socks are very bad at letting go.
They are hard to take off the foot,
and placed in the washer,
and then be found again,
and put through the dryer,
then found again.

Somehow we where put together.
It’s as if the house wife knotted us
on purpose because deep down
she really misses being a kid,
and wearing
mismatched socks.