Have you ever seen the things
that crawl around in the heart
and keep you from believing
in those tiny failures?
have you ever seen the things
that keep mistakes tied
to the loneliness of striving
for another chance at shrugging?
when i walk of late,
i stop and consider
the times when i was forced
into a new point of view.
the shining amber of the ongoing night
the broken hearts that keep falling
and shattering against the floor
and your smile inside,
the only mirth for miles in a dead city
spinning like one of those neon tops
that you get at the dollar store
what does a dying bird expect, though?
some quiet inward motion?
some great inner healing?
just the ability to see the sky one last time.
the kind with the little orange plugs
recall my small room that you no longer occupy
trees and the rays that shoot through
like pillars of your smile
and the precious warmth of your breast-
nowadays a fledgling bird stands in your holy place
and you yourself seem content in walking without socks
no longer careful how black your feet get –
even though it’s a terrible idea to give up here,
i have spotted even through the dim precipice
the slowly wilting edelweiss.
it’s cliche, perhaps, to wish
to hope those fruitless hopes
to consider dark, warm, unfamiliar corridors
i have continued to search
for you, and your pleasant sighs
the small hairs of your arm near smooth.
this place is dark now, like it was then.
and somehow, i wonder terrible things.
Eternity on these amber days
like polaroid pictures pulled through taffy makers,
like the questions you had when you were little:
“How much does he love me?” and similar.
now things are new and well-stated and aching,
those same springing amber legs
now ambling, though purposeful,
now forgotten, though efficient.
and off now to interviews in sullen concrete tents,
to buy out your steel grins and cowering spouses.
soon enough, you will find precious emeralds,
sparkling green, and… sparkling green.
and the precious thought-monster that lived years ago
would shout from the depths of dead lungs:
“it’s only a rock! go and drink the cool waters!,
just stop digging your fingernails dry!”
but this girl in a dress, and two tiny red bows,
is just as well a bouquet in the mirror.
as the moon shines over the docile waters,
so too is the girl never clearer.
but really, however much you furrow your brow,
i cry for you in solemn moments.
wind from across heaven’s white, unerring breast,
rustling weeping trees , as though between two mirrors-
the rolling green under your bare feet—
Sisyphus gets predictability, at the very least.
but what sand sticks to the feet of we lesser mortals?
the up and down and lilting violins play.
should we count in years?
should we stop there, satisfied?
at a dreadful, imperfect integer?
under this same sun,
forgive this penitent beggar
with kind words
and the promise of sleep.
stand out in the rain-
keeping the light glow of aquamarine pupils
sweet amber dryad,
where futility lies.
lest Anteros’ phoenix
feign its own death
and keep inviting you to baseball games
lest you, irrational,
find yourself staring from the couch
to the ceiling.
As though all the light of your soul
came bleeding through your mouth
because of thoughtful midsummer presents~
in tomorrow lies a different perspective.
the waxen paper of today
burns brightly to light sleep’s route.
brightly and without hesitation
should your love endure, small one,
the starving oxen plowing endless wheat.
embrace, lonely pink flower,
the coquettish wind
before it is gone again into twitching, hateful plains.
remember the smiles of those you love.
these are more important
than the strange, cool breezes
that accompany them.