let’s conjure
moon,
feel up this
room
and candle a
corner,
shame we’ll bite off
too much fire
in the guise
of fun
for ones with southern
desert tongue.
writing
i may have left
a hole
where no hole
should
be,
i know not where
it goes,
for it’s too dark
within to
see..
and yet entices
me.
from saggy swing
in curbside
park,
i watch kids choke a tree
to see crows
scatter..
gather, then return
to feast,
from the giving hand
of an unfed
man.
can’t carry you
with me,
and can’t help
but look
back
to see if you’re
wind
or strewn gravel on
train tracks.
burst pipe in the
basement
floods a living room
grown stagnant,
photos float apart
as if to
flee..
a cigar box gorged with
dust and tears
long buried
in me.
so, what makes
you cry..
when holding
nothing
back?
do you revive
what could have been?
or let the better
times rest..
trusting we
did our
best.
we spilled
about dead parents
till they joined the
conversation,
at a table varnished to
cast reflections..
appearing more like shadows
of photos
by time’s candle
dimming.
it’s no wonder
i avoid,
so consumed by
city noises,
the hollow crunch
of beer
cans,
dank streets lined
with heat
lamps
leaving me fake
tanned,
while what i seek’s
a whispered
breeze
to ferry me
to sleep.
haunted by
a habit,
in the middle of
a sentence
to describe the sound
of distress
in a voice that
tames the
tides.
rusted spoon upon
the counter,
mother moon,
don’t judge me now,
for the spoiled taste
in my mouth..
from caffeine in
sweetened
cream,
behind dissolving
smoke screen.
hands in the garden 
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