I wrote about you last night
when there were supposed to be
a million falling stars

clouds got in the way
but hell, those weren't really suns
falling to their death

would have been fitting
if they were, for the cliche is apt:
you being my light of day

and you did fall from the sky,
though not through the firmament at night
with others tracing your trails

you jumped solo from the
GW Bridge, on a clear Thursday
at a low high noon

your obit was politically polite, not
describing your terse flight, or the bones
the Hudson's waters crushed

so I wrote about you last night
a missive to me--I asked what the Times did not,
what was your final thought

when you stepped from the rail:
did you see your whole life fly before your eyes
or just sky, water and the helpless bridge

like smooth velvet words
on satin blue skies with white *******
painted with corn cob silks
upon a  backdrop of the
brightest hues of yellow red
the contrast of a mauve overhead
glares
when the sky turns green along
comes  that starry night
of Matisse eyesight and Van Gogh
splashing
down to earth to soil
in awe my mind made all
it possible
the midnight majesty and celestial gazing
just here right now
on plain
mother earth

if I were to lay down my glove onto your thigh
place my gauntlet upon your taut high *******
lay my ear to your chest hear your heart
tell me would you love me back?

ere the sun to warm the bed the sheets
make the warmest nest to love
together might you sink into a wet
embrace a passionate kiss

tell me tales of innocence as I
gently knead you closer
look off into the ceiling look down
when you think I am
not noticing

were the moons to multiply upon
the eastern dark sky tonight
like you and I
brightly sheen

If it was the end of the world or no
one would ever hear a word
again, might you take my hand tonight
pause the dreams of him

and for once see
I love you more than him
I have so much to give my pleas the silver rose
of sanity

oh sweetest blush again

in the darkened hall the barefoot man
stood afraid of stubbing toes and tripping up
afraid to make himself the fool
the stumbling bumbling imbecile
his weight of fear took up more of him
that time stood still
and this day he stands in bronze
a monument to fear
a statue now stands etched in time
along side a stale crumb
of bread

I seek  her origin
surely a hymn an oral tradition a way of passing on
to destiny a love song's passion
it was never written
never penned
but echoing
deep inside
my intuitions

Turned in the morning

Surrounded by book
And bottle

All subtly drowned
In the love
Of learning.

Li Po and Beckett
Solemnly cover my
Leanings

I wake
Crying
And thank all the gods
(As yet unnamed)

That you may be here

Sometime
(Smiling)