fresh cut
smell
on slipping
day,
holding
on..
only to watch
it fade,
deep gut
swell,
the night grows
bare
little left to do
but stare.
poetry
craving inner
silence..
but dreams mostly
of violence,
wakes up to own
scratches..
clutching a book
of matches,
yet rises to
face..
the
quietness,
a lioness,
she is.
absence grips
on tightly,
thoughts of your
warmth
remind
me..
how
to feel-
with empty
space
beside
me..
but never
inside.
too many
angels
for sinner to
handle,
one hand cups
a candle,
the other gets
burned–
in healing’s the lesson
learned.
the waiting
room-
a loaded
queue,
all doom and
gloom,
called to a
room,
rushed out a
door..
without the cure that
i’d hoped
for.
the waves licked
your toes
like they craved
adventure,
and you sunk
into sand
like ship beached far
from known
land,
and your
sails!
oh those majestic
doves..
waved back at
the sea
as you turned
to me.
untethered the
summers..
laid shaded
in shame,
flattened by rainclouds
we could never
tame,
unshackled the
remnants
of steel round
our ankles–
thankful for a break
in the grey.
what might we
have done,
were we to know
the now?
more dry
sweat
on
furrowed
brow?
where would we
have flown
with wings fully
grown..
and how?
songbird on
the wire
pecks at
sky..
and flies into
a hole-
to bewilderment
of crows
on hydro
pole.
a thinker
on park bench
stares down
at shoes,
wondering if the
view from
above
offers any
clues,
guy passing
by drags
feet..
through a
puddle,
and doesn’t see
thinker–
lost
in his
own bubble.
hands in the garden 
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