leave me
I’m
a brick of sticks
one of the
little pigs

my last straw

a wolf’s great draw

& call me

don’t say baby

so this whole house falls

I ain’t blown away
no luck of the
no luck at all

It’s every day of the week
The way birds sing in
trees
to the
beat of the leaves
while we’re talking
It’s the scream of my knees
& every
Thing you say to me
has been drumming in a beat made of humming

give me your T-shirt or something

I’m online in the morning

I’m in love on the knuckle of loving.
You really do something
You’re probably something

And I’m the thumb on a hand full of wanting

i think the
irony

befits such an
ending -

you,
settled

me,
altered

permanently
unsettled

a trace of
you forever

running through
my veins

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

In the afternoon
Below a grey blue sky
I hear the chatter
Of the magpies.
And they talk in bird talk
In words unknown to me
As they bob their little heads
By the amaltas tree.
Glad I am to hear them
I listen carefully
Happy to be in their -
wondrous company

Skies darken as blue fades,
clouds burst in happiness,
a cascade of drops,
soaking earth,
a rosary of shimmering beads,
crystal droplets dance in puddles,
peering through glass windows,
tapping on roof tops that slant,
on thatched homes that drip,
on twigs and branches,
on ruby tangerine roses and sunny marigolds,
settling in scarlet and auburn crevices,
on emerald leaves and blades of satin green grass,
glistening like drops of morning dew,
and in the midst of the gentle splash of the rain,
there you are —
it is always raining you