watchful

so cold, and getting colder:
huddled in the shrine
mary's skirts are still--
her autumn crown rustles.

trying to steady
shaking hands: stuttering moon
Sunday evening

spring
blossoms
at the dressing table
he wipes away her
split perfume.

old school friends
still combine our names.

the comic book store owner asked
why i washed out the purple

you'd since dyed your hair.
vanished sister, my brother

has your voice on a cassette,
he laughs at all your jokes.

the afternoon sun is high
but i can't escape your shadow.

we mourn each other
still unnamed, leave offerings
at unmarked crossings.
our only way across the bridge
was to burn the village.

i take my pill at 11:11
(it's own kind of wish.)

snow outside
flecks and specks
the red brick alley

you damnwellknow
i had to say
something.

seven years, so much time to write
stories that never visit.

three stories visited, so far,
today: no time to write.

already valentines!
haven't finished
the christmas chocolate.

lead frames the stained glass
lead paints the window frame
a toxic perspective

i wrote you a letter.
i wrote for hours,
and closed the file
without saving.

i have no poem
for you today.

instead i will offer
a wet sleeve's drag
across the table,

the calligrapher's
first mark.

what's more important?
the image, the language, or
the syllable count?

old friend's handwriting
hasn't changed over ten years:
uneasy echo.

i'd talk about the future
you'd change the subject
(or fall asleep.)

the gentle art of verbal self-defense begins and ends with one idea:
writing out my thoughts beforehand isn't getting me anywhere.

three times the train moans,
three times further yet,
something like sirens in travel's quake:

everything is moving along.

i tried to talk about the way cold smelled with my father, once.

isn't it something like linen, i asked.

dad looked at me. cold does not smell, he explained.

ketchup bottle!
salt shaker!
half a wide blue eye

laughing nephew slaps the table
i can see you
past the orange silk roses

but only half an eye.