She danced along the Chicago Streets,
lovely with fire kissed hair.
Weaving a path towards no-where.
Dreaming of drafts singing sweet scents
of burning leaves in the late autumn air.

By and by the crisp air raked reality,
and she paused
remembering summer rains in her tiny home town

We silently strode
the streets of Babylon;
Revolution in the air,
but my eyes were shut.

It was late autumn then;
the nights turned cold.
It felt like yesterday
had been the equinox.

The walls were crumbling,
but I was unable
to think for the dogs –
forever babbling.


I grasped your hand,
and you squeezed back,
but we already knew
our garden had withered.

Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.

Does the migrating duck truly know
what it is that he wants;
or is he caught up in peer pressure
when he conquers indecision,
and spreads his wings to fly
south?

Is it possible that as he soars,
like Icarus,
that he is accosted by doubt
while the late autumn sun
baptizes him?

And when he finally crashes down,
in some forgotten pond,
warmed by a tropical clime;
that he wonders what might have been,
and is overcome by regret?

I sink into her lips as one sinks
into the soft sands as the tide
recedes gently into the jealous sea.
Locked in an eternal push and pull.
Daring me to swim into her depths.
Exonerating me to plunge down.

And all the while I tread the shores
of Galilee
in the off season,
as the suites come at a better rate.

Hark; the way to the surface is lost
amidst the turbulent crash of
this wine dark sea, which is her soft hair.
Her pale skin is the grainy sand,
And the foam that breaks upon me.
while I long for her wave to crash

I recognize her heart beat, as if
it reverberates deeply within my own,
sounding like a long forgotten love song
that I once knew all the words to

My foot sinks deeply into the snow.
The boots leave giant holes in the land,
while I follow the smaller fox prints.

Stumbling, for I have lost my way.
The sign for Bethlehem snow covered;
perhaps it is somewhere in east Vermont.

The trees are all barren from the cold.
The fox’s glare is often pitiless,
as pitiless as winters frozen touch.

Prophets and apostles migrate south now
along with the fowl of the air and Jews;
to where the signs are not snow covered.

New England longs for the warmth of spring,
but I pine for the deep Florida heat.
I want to watch the heron rise steeply.

I awoke from the dream startled.
The bedroom was oh so very cold,
and I went to cover you in the down,
but suddenly I remembered;
staring at the vacant, ***** sheets.