I bought a book of
empty sheets
to find
something to
do

and as I filled the creamy
leaves I only thought of
you

I set the kettle, warmed my
hands,
I chose my favorite tea

I turned onto the
last back page and scribbled
"you and me."

Photographs
in black and white
of you
adorn my walls

where your lips are dark
your hair is curled
a baby's
on your hip
and your eyes
are black and
plum

as dark as every
cup of coffee
and chocolate covered
orange

It's my first
Mother's day
without you
sans you
missing you
profoundly

You just
exist in
photographs
and endless
memories.

All the poets
in my life are
not writers
at all

It's not often
a poem wakes me
in the night

stirs me out of
unconsciousness to
speak to me

it's never been about
you
or us-
it's never said a
word to me that's pulled
me from the very moment that
I'm living in

but here with you,
here where winter
is mid-stretch
and the Ash Groves seem
quieter than
ever

I'm waking over
and over
and over,
my love,
because
you're speaking
to me
and poems keep
waking me in the
night.

I used to think I'd make you
fall in love
with me

but now I know,
as I fold my
clothes
and I pull my
denim jeans
over my
thighs
(I think they've gotten bigger)
and I brush my hair, that's
coming in blonde again
(I need to go get a box of
dye)
and I can't seem to find my
glasses
again

that there's nothing
I could have ever
done
to make you fall in love,
could not have done to make you fall
in love

with endless months of
rain
and another grey
spring:

you were bound to
fall in love with me
and there's nothing
I could
have done to
start
or stop it.

There's a time when song
tells me

and there's the time I let
her be

And then there's the time
I am
begging
for her to come and
speak to me.

I feel love.

I can speak French
and I feel like
I'm Parisian
with my perfume and
my crooked
bowl of pears

I feel love.

I feel the pull,
the push,
the quiet dance
of romance
in the deepest
sinews of
my being

It's France and
it's Asia
and it's anywhere I see
myself
I know that I'm in love.

My hands are
often filled with
paint
from days spent
at the
easel

and they're spent
avoiding any
talk with you
that might
signify the
end

and when you take my hand
and when you try to make it
better
I try to scratch the paint marks off
to look away from
you
any excuse to
look away from
you

i had forgotten all about
love
until I saw a
glittered branch
upon the smallest tree
on Pearl Street

twisted and bent
and the slightest of
all flowers hanging
down upon its stump

and little drops of water
falling
to the pavement
as I held my breath
[they didn't make a sound]

and i remembered how a flower needs
the rain.

Today is a really
important day
because today
I knew that I
loved you.

I'm not sure
the moment that
turned the page for me,
but it"s November and I'm
over the moon.

   You're at the coast
   and I'm in the valley
   and it's the start of
   the beautiful holidays

     You spent the morning
     at the cape and
     I spent it
painting
     away

           and somewhere-
           -somewhere
           where you were running with
            the tide
           and when I was mixing the
           perfect violet hue
          
I knew that you were it for me
I knew that I loved *you

I want to tell you
it all
I want the words to
pour out
cascade and crash
like waterfalls
like rain drops
like everything eventually
comes down, come down
with me

She's upstairs and
I'm in the chapel because
someone said we could
Burn a candle

And I touched
The holy water in the
Silver dish, worn from
Hands with prayers
For the dying
And the
Living
And those
Somewhere in between

And you asked me
How to make the cross
while i stared at
The flickering flame
And you wanted me
To say a prayer
And I wanted to escape

She is dying
In white sheets
Upstairs
And
You don't know what to say
I just want her to fall
Asleep

And for it all to go away.

Where are we when
the world is
falling, darling
(tell me with your wings)
and where is it
you're flying?
This is where we were
born to be, you and me
to carry you
from flight to
freedom
- I'll say it:
I'm willing to change

In these days, we are
kings-
changing shapes
against horizons,
fueling triumphs
with our
failures, nesting birds we
haven't flown in
ages, but our frames
can bear the
weight

I live in the white
light
and you, the shadowed
silhouette of
branches,
it's not news to
me, but I believe
if mirrors can reflect
the sun then I'll fill the
forest floor
with sparkling
confetti and
I'll light you
from beneath

Last night,
we had six miles
to walk
to where
I parked the truck

the winding road
the mimicking trees
my eyes behind
a pair of shades I
found in the glovebox

Thank god,

I couldn't take my eyes off you
the way you know about
poetry and
art

and you notice how the
light cascades
swims,
over every shade of dark

and you said that I'd be "it"
someday
the last time that we spoke

but now you
walk as though
you've never seen
this ghost
before

but I know you
want me,
all the same.

Six miles to go, but so much more to me.

I'm working the trade
of
tethered souls
where it won't stop
raining and I can't
let it go.
Where thunder never seemed so soft against
a field of buzzing strings in an
orchestra it's like the
plague
and even when
my hands are
black from all the digging
this ensues...
I'm working the trade of
tethered souls
and I've
chained
myself to
make do.

I've never been so in
love
or so angry
that I want to burn my
tongue
to remember
coffee with
you.

Life is good
when the sun is
high
and the cities are
old friends

when the night is
cool and the
crickets
sing
and I'm at peace
again

Life is good
when there's no fear
no pain or hole of
loss

and life is good
when it's sanded down
to the raw self behind
the gloss

I loved the
red dirt
road that
lead to your
tiny
faded
house
from months of
summer sun
and the curtains in
the window
that your sweet
son gave to
you.

And the pebbles that I
kicked as I held
baby's hand
in mine
because she'd
run off to
pick a flower
pick a dozen
flowers for you,

I loved you in all
of your weakness.
In all of your wasted
hours
your wasted
dreams
your wasted demons
and your fears

I loved you in all
of everything.
You were all of everything.
Poetry for eyes.

I could fall onto
my back
and into
cigarette burns and
the grief-trenches

I could hold onto the feeling
of your hand
in mine
and the hunger I
feel for your
magic
  healing
    words

I don't know if you
knew it then -
but since all this time has
passed
and all the knocks on the door were not
yours (they
couldn't be yours)

and I knew you couldn't be back to
say
goodbye.

I'm so glad I stayed
with you,
held you,
and called our family to the
room
when you died.

Someday, they tell
me,
the aching will
stop-
the roads I take
alone at night
will no
longer
drive the pain

someday, time will
give me a gentle
push
a gentle shove to put
me in motion
away from all
your hurt

I'm not sure
where the dark roads go,
but I know
it's nowhere
good
and I'm trying to restrain
from giving into the
pain
and thinking that
every place,
every you
is the same

I'm not sure
anyone's to blame

but I need time to
heal the
rain.

Promise me
that you won't
let your feet
scrape against
the broken sand
and get tangled
in the river
weeds again

You're the one,
and I'm trying
so hard to cut
back the weeds
that pull you down

but the river is cold
and I panic
in ice
and the rapids
keep taking
me down

Promise me
you'll try to
keep your head
up,
as will I,
and that you'll
let yourself
feel the sunlight
again.

You're in the other room
making deals
with the
devil

and I'm in bed
in my wilting
sheets
watching the candle's
flame
dance about

& the Christmas lights
are still up in
the window
and I ruined my slippers
when I ran into the street
because I thought you
were gone

making deals with the devil
deals with the devil
and I'm still staring
at the flame.

I'd like to say I've
grown from hollow, from the yellow
flowers in the dell -
from the fading wings of
promise, to the
loved from infidel

I'd like to say I've
found the plateau, from the depths
of all our wars -
from the hazy shade that
summer makes
-
from now to
evermore.

The moment between
the end of your
cigarette and the
clutch of
your knuckles

the three inches of time
of inhales and
exhales

the moment between the
ash and
your inspire:

where you're standing outside,
and I'm in your
coat
for three minutes,
three inches,
a cigarette,
I have
you.

I've been filling up
my glass
night and night
again

peering in the opening
my lips pressed to
the rim

I've been swallowing
my pain again
frothing in my
beer

I've been filling up
my glass
too tall and
lying through my
cheers.

I've been trying to find
1,000 ways
or reasons
or pieces of sun rays to
blast away my storms
- or even 100 things,
   or 10,

I'm not picky, but I'm fading fast

and I need to find

something,
anything
to
   live for.

I paint so
little wooden
fences
and
fleeting cups of
coffee
between
lovers last
forever

Every man I date
has a
balcony
with a view
This is something I
noticed as
I was driving
to the café today,

Every man I
date
chose his
apartment for
the sights- so what,
if anything,
does that say about
me?

A man with a
skyline.
A man with a
view.
Another
man that's replacing
the every thought
of sleeping in
a tree-tall
loft with
you

I only date men who
love a good view.

Through falling snow
I see your
silhouette
against the
birches
where the light
can feel your
skin

where the cold is ever
lingering
and the winter
lies so deep

between the
fallen snow
I hear your laughter
where a drop of dew
is poetry
and so is a
navy jacket
brushing
against twigs.

I watched the lights
from out my window
glitter
from afar

floating in the
shadowed night
a swimming
pit of sharks

In my
endless dark
where light
exists
and touches where you are



I watched the lights
out in the distance
falling
down like snow

weightless in
abyssal black
yawning
in their glow

out of reach
from where
I stayed
and where I
watched you go

It breaks my
heart
you left me
and you
didn't even know

I wrote a tragedy
last night
with my finger on your back
you felt my hands move,
trace patterns on your skin

and the glow of daylight
flooding in
and touching your face
and mine

my hand making shadows dance
and swim over
your spine.

you smiled as my fingers moved
the hair up on your arms

it felt like Indian patterns to you,
but I was spelling out
"It's over."

Fire
and I'm standing at the
barre
my feet pressed in
to hard wood
floors sprung up
beneath the dance

Fire and you're
here inside
my mind; I
count the time
and plie,
grand plie
my arm, a wing, it
takes me down

Fire and
I love you.
Fire and I
desperately
hopelessly love
you

and down,
and down I go.

I can see in your
eyes there
is sorrow
and I can see you
row,
out of
control,

on the edge of the sea you are
lonely

and you long to be
everywhere all at
once-
you have to know
I feel the same
to go and
stay with you,
to pull towards the
shore
then back to sea
with you

Darling, if on the edge of a cliff
you dangled your grief,
I'd hold that rope with you.
Use my tiny, agile, painter's hands to
hook on every
misery,
to
hang over
the edge of alienation,
a pendulum of problems where ocean's mist
can cut the cord

I want to bear the weight of all your
worry, until the
lighthouse stream goes
grey
and watch your doubts,
your troubles,
your need for what it is you cannot find
slowly fade
away

I'm on the edge of a cliff,
with you
and your sadness can't make me
sway
to pull towards the
shore
then back to sea
with you

I tried to
sleep you
out of my
system

but I only
rose to
find that
I'm more
tired
than before
and sickly
missing
you.

Where were you
in days of
endless rainfall
when the sun
wouldn't
touch a soul?

and the curtains were closed
and the dust had settled,
tell me you know,
that the dust
has settled

in that room
that's
looked the
same for seven years.

You have to know
it's killing me
to watch you
collapse in
the rocking chair
and lull your mind
to sleep
with the pain
of all you've taken
back
all the postcards
and cigarette cartons
that you've brought back
for thirty years

You're not the same
and I'm not
who I was
then
as well

the dust has settled
the spiders have come
and the sun has
finally set
over us.

I can't believe the
sun is still shining
after a winter of grey

and that love still
exists in a world like this
that I lost it all this way


I can't believe that you
fell so ill; that you died
and I left France

I can't believe I'm still
writing on this and
how long that sorrow lasts.

You danced
a long waltz
with death
high on
the soles of
your feet
so that
you would not
touch his toes

swathed in
blue,
and white,
in fluorescent
light,
to box-step
as you go

and the music here is playing
as this world we live in spins
and wherever they are taking you
I will meet you there, my friend.

The last twenty four
years were beyond wonderful
the next will be too.

Fresh white paint
And I.V. drips
And flat
Flourescent lights
The medicinal
Smell of
"Not quite yet"
And "i thought we still had time."
These are the
Thoughts that
Come to me -
   That winter when you died
You're somewhere
  In the needles
    Of December,
      Spruce and Pine

The hospital
room's aglow
with sickly
yellow lights and
greenish hues

and your hands are folded
under your blanket
under your scratchy
hospital
blanket

and my forehead lives
on the metal bar
that keeps you
in your bed

and the yellow
trees are glowing
out the cement
window panes
where my sister
pinned a plastic
bow to hold back
my greasy bangs

I would live here
for eternity
if it meant
saving you
go to sleep
peacefully
and someday
I will too.

I could hold my breath
for you,
live underwater-
fresh water-
the rapids
overhead forgetting
I exist
and close my mouth, open my eyes,
let the current push and
pull me

my love,
you're so intoxicating
you're so thrilling
you're so in tune
with everything I am
and long to be

I could jump in
Little River
and I'd still be able
to breathe

Where there is a
dream, living in
settled glass,
(the kind you find in an
abbey
in an alley of
sinners & saints)
    where there is always a small
bird with her
"I trust you" wings in a
nest where she rests
assured

among chorales and
readings and phrases as
  inevitable as forget-me-nots-
where red meets blue
with the welding of
gold
and prayers are a
hatchlings
   lullaby

I've heard of people
praying
   for
everything,
but not even
    birds
      answering
       their
            cry.

the breeze is cool
my skin is rose
I'm alone and
you're a ghost

the sun, it sets
and color fades
my night kissing
shades of grey

...
even though
I love this life,
I can feel
such pain inside

I'm not sure if I told
you,
but
when the orchestra becomes
quiet

like the moment
after
fallen
  sn
     o
        w

your stillness
whispers all the things
I need
  to know

There's a moment
I keep
going back to.

Where we're sitting
just you,
and I,
in front of the
Clarence Carter
record
turning.

And you reach to touch
my hand,
softer than
before the
day you told
me this was
nothing.

In every moment,
I'm not with you-
and where you tell me
I'm just a
good friend

I'll keep going back
to this place
where we're sitting
on the floor,
laughing,
holding
hands.

It's moments like now
where I'm running to
my notebook,
chaotic flight for a pen
because I feel
the morning stir
within me

I love you
and I've never been so sure-
so I have to touch
the tip of a pen
to the plane of a
paper
and let my quiet hands
dance into
literary
song

I love you and I've never been so sure

The night is pitch black
and all I see are stop lights
stop this silent war.