Early birds

We were lost
to all senses,
no morning propriety.
The night had won.
He said, “I worship you…”
I said, “Don’t burn the toast.”

Distracted (tomorrow still comes)

Distant thunder doesn’t distract
the butterfly from its flitter
nor her staring without seeing the tree

The insect uses instinct
and will be dead soon

She loves him desperately
instead of safely keeping time
and that is of no consequence
to a host of long tomorrows


How do you like
living with your own undoing?
I hope the memories are as delightful
as the stories.
I’m enjoying my secret pockets
full of kept daylight –
like bridging the real world outside
and the new world of the film
by drowning out distractions
with Milk Duds
during coming attractions.

Don’t you find it exhausting
to pretend there’s no possibility?
I’m open, though few see the signs.

No reserve

along my hip,
a place with no reserve,
where time teeters
like the morning of your birthday;
whole stories have slipped
over the edge of bone
into softest forget…
what would you try to hold
and remember
of my world as it falls
like a cloudless night?


It was trembling strings,
gusty crinoline,
with a touch of spilled wine
that roused her
to an anguished harmonica,
rough burlap,
and icy breath
of a coming winter.