dear
bumblebee–
you follow
me..
but flower i
am not,
though my scent
be raw &
sweet,
i don’t pose
pretty in
a pot.
abstract
to look back,
i’d catch but traces
of faces fading
to these
eyes,
forward i see
the next
step,
to a less than
easy climb.
i’m woken..
while
she’s sleeping-
thus unknowing of
my fears,
love turns over
to see me
staring,
and starts snoring
in my ear.
sorrow holds her
heartstrings..
and
he tugs
like they’re
unbreakable things,
they’ve got so
little give,
but she
has
a fighter’s
will to
live
she stares
from her painting,
like no one sees her
but me-
the lonely old
voyeur..
gazing up from
bent knee.
wrote an old fashioned
letter,
with an old pen from
the drawer,
to an old friend
from times
before–
we left home
for more.
she poses by
window,
casting sharp
angles,
whispering shy
things,
tugging on dress
strings,
i laze by the
fire pit
and gaze at her
plush wings.
emptied
of conversation-
i listen to
efforts
to keep up with
neighbors,
to get the last
word in,
but truth is that
i too
just wish to
be seen.
a snow owl
with ice
eyes,
a treetop ‘neath
ash skies,
ol’ smoke stacks
inhaling
the sharp
air..
impaling.
desire’s eyes bleed
through their
lids,
a heaving heart beats
through its
ribs,
lights dim–
and shallow breaths
quicken..
as endorphins
kick in.
hands in the garden 
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