let him pick no more

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don’t blossom here, flower,

close up, go back inside. don’t reach,

for your sun, don’t open your petals

wide.  don’t smile, or believe, or

speak your fuschia dreams.

he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,

grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,

until a lovelier one blooms, and he will

drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.

you’ll be lying on the ground, with no

way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,

dear flower, let him pick no more.

all the ways

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all the ways I drown in silence

as lifeboats climb trees

the tidal pull, the listen for you

but wave after wave of mute breath

while your forests are alive with float

songs of save, so far away

sink, sink in salty quiet

none of your life lines reach

they play melodies in trees

and I struggle

wordless rip current

desolate sea

silences me

Simple

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He and she lived a simple life of years

in a house with shuttered windows

and a garden of roses by the back door.

But she was I and he was you and years were only

things that didn’t happen and things that did.

And the house was a palace and a prison

and an empty box, and it was all so complicated.

The windows were weary eyes that always

watched, and the door, the door was the keeper,

the releaser, the rectangle of know; behind there,

questions were born. And yellow roses grew out back,

but so did thorns, and we never knew which we would

collect.  Strings of together pulling, binds of tight,

and then invisible hands to reach down

and sweep away our tangled life.

Never Still

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I am not enough everywhere

here and here and here

but there and now and only me

and all and none and it’s all me

and why can’t I be everywhere?

falling short, falling, falling

losing time, letting all of you down,

down, running all my days, running

in my sleep, no finish line, no

victory tape, no end, only longer

lists, more things missed

lost beneath time spent, spent lost

a thousand ways but still not enough

still

never still

never