Blue drifts
growing outside the window,
castles pure and ancient
holding memory like a song

Sparkling seasons simmer inside me,
stories unfurl with my breath,
fogging the glass

I stand on the other side of cold
and for a moment,
my eyes see my eyes seeing-
my reflection in frost

I am time,
held in spilling light
over snow


Sneezing through a memory

… and I return
to some place
that’s somewhere else,
like the yellow dust from 1974
which I have some idea
I remember-
shortly before
my parents took me to see ‘Jaws’
and I was five years old

I have the same feeling
of inappropriate excitement
and I wonder if they recognized
what I know now,
how things get ruined
when one talks too much
or doesn’t think
or tries too hard

… and I return
to some place
that’s always grey
that will always be-
even if buried
beneath teapots and exuberance
and I wonder
if I’ll find anyone else
as I shuffle in dust

Train passing through

With the grace of a train whistle,
he blew through
my station.

There was no schedule.
I never left the platform.

My dreams of flight
drifted on smoke
far, far away.


The force beneath my hair,
behind my neck,
pressing me into places
of wretched beauty

fighting me when I don’t know
where I’m supposed to go

why, oh how, oh when
will the wind let me breathe
without force?

I stand as firmly as time.

Feeling cramped, chilly,
and a little bit small,
moving mindlessly
away from traffic
until peering out the windshield,
I see a bird
soaring despite rain.

I envy a lack of decision
when instinct takes hold
and flight becomes imperative.