might there be
an end
in which we
stay?
could be you’re far too
kind to say
no care
could bridge
the void between
our dreams
in
reality.
rhyme
tacky, too small
towel
folded over
mirror,
powdered yet
damp,
caving sun starved
cheek,
tepid swan tears
in her sway,
no push to
speak,
curtains hang like
eyelids,
sorrows perched
on shoulder
bare,
chipped comb teeth
parting grey
hair.
a fading letter
to myself,
another season
boxed up,
visions dust the
eyelids
a teardrop
blurs dried photo
of boarded
garden
room
last rose in back
flaunts her
fleshy
hue
eternally in
bloom.
she reminds me
i was birthed estranged
and hides letters
that would best explain
why i do not breathe
love’s name
without shame.
i’m
one frothy
flippopotamus
rooting in
self-soothing slop,
basking in
back bacon sizzling,
snorting bubbles
hiss and
pop.
a tired punch through
frozen glass
to evade the
clasp of
time,
deep cleansing cuts
on hands,
in gushing life from
busted dam.
point not as
i fail,
no such beast treks
these woods
since autumn laid
its smell,
hear not as
i tell
like i’ve never
lived the
tale,
trapper without
map
back to safety net’s
missing mesh,
beast now roams
off grid,
unplug to watch
eyes dim
like stars
through drowsy slits.
ash breath slips though
stained glass
teeth,
i watch it rise
just beyond reach
and dare not speak
just to be
heard
while i’ve no use for
sounds like
words.
do eyes parade
by you?
exposed
in shy costume,
making vintage
new.
broken pencil-
charcoal smudge,
loose leaf torn up-
worn off grudge.
hands in the garden 
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