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.
endings
watched over by
beginnings
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
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.
window
seeing from
the other side
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
beginning ~
you will soar the sky
bird whispers
Talking to the Clouds 