“is it you?”
they pause to ask..
and I can’t shake
the question,
but don’t respond the
way they’d
like..
just tellin’
it true,
“what’s it to you?”
“what side do you need to show?”
“which me do you really want to know?”
“there’s still love
in death”-
you claimed upon
return from
realm of all who know
what’s gained
by loss..
far from land of
this reeling
spirit
who knows only
its cost.
near as the harsh gust
piercing my
lobes,
sharp as dusk’s bite
on the ridge of
my nose,
red not from
the candy,
cold not
of your stare,
autumn’s come
calling-
its breath in
our hair.
i smell buttered
popcorn,
it drags me back to
movie theaters
and silences made
awkward by
hesitation
and worries that
others were
watching..
four eyes glued
to screen.
you let go of
my hand..
to hold my face
close to
yours–
and stared into
each pore,
to know what
hid inside–
then examined
no more.
descending, head
spinning,
cave floor’s always
dropping,
in pure
dark..
soul’s resisting its call
to glance
up.
lashes keep
batting
like fan keeps
me cool
like old yarn slips
from spool
as tailor’s
busy chitchatting.
on a hand
scrawled note
rest words better
unspoken,
seeping into
the page–
like they’d never
been written.
not a jumper
but i like
to fly,
no real reason to
return to
ground–
i glance around
to find
us
floating eye
to eye.
one pure thought
away from
gold..
so i’ve been
taught
to know what’s
real from
not
the kind of
livin’
that’ll keep me from
growing old.
hands in the garden 
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