i’d have posed higher
questions
knowing what i can’t
see now,
do you still read clouds
out loud
or
call doves
to your dreams
and if so,
how?
creative writing
a final dive
before summer dries,
heartbeat dim but
never dead,
time’s fog settles
over firebugs,
beauty on the
breath.
midday meeting
friendship workload
right on time
for fake
it,
not taken for a
real boy-
all
strings,
salt drips
thru heart’s bricks,
inhale
raw throat dusk,
nothing floods
the well
but echoes become ash
once heard.
hollowness
in being crowded
at taped off time of day
doorbell screams
i crank up screen
to shrink behind those
hard not to see
though i’m no better
crude and petty
palms pressed to skull moon
cold and sweaty.
bending to seductions
shading in blanks
moonrise glazing eyes
too vain for thanks
never granting self the chance
to be surprised
well sown but not growing
and its showing
who cares?
not love.
you’re a chord change
in quicksand
song
rewound to skip
the fade,
smokescreens only delay
mirror’s gaze,
each surface
blemish-
a stroke of
genius,
both hands firmly on
your helmet,
i spit hornets
but half mean it,
watching a dove
land
in desert hand
of man
like shrine to
longing.
sun kissed music
is a portal
to nostalgia
sponged from pictures
scattered over
split foundations,
daisies strain through teeth
like train tracks-
pleas for pardon while
sweat hardens,
planting garbage in
dream gardens.
face flushed in
webbing-
panting swells
the womb
of seeds wept
in shade,
never to know
shame.
crisp feather heavens
citrus water gardens
steep her eyes
deep rosy
dusk.
chatter plucks on nerves
then becomes the chirp of birds
shunning words and fenced in meanings
embracing the beauty of being
and freedom to
dream
hands in the garden 
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