A good warrior

waits and lets his enemy --


take fatal chances.

When the day won’t move and the clocks aren’t tickinG,
    A lonely hour feels like an iNvitation
        Into endless Isolation.
           aTTacking
     Internal thoughts Into
   A vengeance against   Nobody.
Without a minute to spare yet nothinG to do.

I am not gone.
I rest in yellow.
I rest on all of your roads.

Lying still.
Waiting.

But my eyes
are no longer closed.
They tunnel and pierce
the waiting horizon.

For when you come,
even as a mirage,
I will know it is you.

i have traveled a long way
to be waiting in a cheap motel

passing time reading the words
of dead russian poets

waiting for you to arrive.

four am is especially bleak,
and no restless sleep is
as purely restless,

no sound
more angry forlorn and
temporary than cars on the
highway besides.

i would never know by your voice
filtered by space and electronics

what is moving through you.
i must look in to you.

so i wait now for you to knock,

alone in the company of
pasternak's tears

until i see you and understand you
are well.

I do not know if it’s all illusion—
but I adore when someone lies awake, eyes wide with dreams,
tracing blades of grass, searching for me
among flocks of white herons.

I adore how someone falls in love with me
while watching a deer—hair spilled wild, resting
in pale blue light, waiting, almost breathless,
for the hour of longing to end.

And I adore it more
when they listen for dew to learn if I have arrived;
cradling a young hare, wondering if I, too, am restless;
holding a white flower, smiling softly,
gazing at swans and thinking of me.

When rain falls they run outside
just to feel me near.
I love it—
after the long day fades, or in the burnt stillness of afternoon,
when they return, weary as a dove, and look for me—
yes, I love it.

May they remain like rainfall—
gentle, everlasting, felt upon skin and soul.

Calming, is it not?
To be able to sit--- wait
And watch the clock tick

You said you would forget me—
like restless waves upon the sea,
crashing in the eyes.
You said—
in the city of love, now turned to ashes,
you fear to walk again,
lest one spark
burn your heart once more.

You fear—
oh, how deeply you fear—
not man,
but the shadow of man.
A small man, a small life—
is it light behind the shadow,
or shadow behind the light?

Simple words falter upon the lips—
what I wish to say,
what I end up saying.

You said: Do not return.
In the heavy black monsoon of sorrow,
you walked away.
But will your rain-soaked grief
ever fall again, Beloved?

Today I am like a star, veiled in clouds—
dimmed, lost to myself.
A wandering soul,
burning with the desire
to exist
within your existence.

And yet—
I will sit and wait
on the riverbank of life.
If you wish,
you may return once more,
sailing across in the boat of longing.

Shall I ever see

you again? I'll wait for you --


in rain and in sun.