driftwood
eyes
stretched
islands apart,
ice yet stuck in
throat,
smoke signal distant
boats,
seabird feather
sneeze,
in flames,
the ocean trees
flicker
me asleep.
writing
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.
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.
memoirs shed
to read backwards,
brainwaves down highways,
black marker mystery
played out by smudge-eyed agents
on slow dissolving screen.
i’m
one frothy
flippopotamus
rooting in
self-soothing slop,
basking in
back bacon sizzling,
snorting bubbles
hiss and
pop.
confined to
old home staircase
missing railings
no apparent landing,
down then
up to
lost..
still
shuffling..
stifling..
teetering on the edge
of dream,
eyes fixated on
our feet–
rooted right where
we should be.
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.
hands in the garden 
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