Each step a made-up word,

seeing art in a parking lot snow pile

relying on an automated decision tree

to calculate how long before flight

A roadside flower across the country

imagining a red-walled library

and more clouds and more rain

whenever the chorus begins again

Maybe we’re meant to be bog people

taking our sin in a stew

or maybe we’re water fowl in disguise

I’m ready for dreams to take me to you

Each day is a small phrase

in a larger conversation

I seem to be behind in.

I jump the gun

but can never catch up

and my heart is often in my stomach

as I resign myself

to being out of place

and the odd one out.

I look back a little

and wonder how I come up with

the hopeful things,

the messages in moonlight,

the melody of a meadow

when I blink and all is bleak.

Is it question or statement

without punctuation

who can tell

how fitting

it is to travel to a house

that’s yours

just as a mailman’s route is his

or a highway to work is hers

a piece of real estate

not anybody’s

except for all the claims of time

and defined lines

just as an idea is theirs

and they are a they

inside two separate boxes

on a map

but inside one space

of heart that has blurry lines

It’s late and there is snow

resting quietly, taking the night’s moans

and spinning them into sugar.

I am fluffy and warm inside

where it is dark and the fire has gone out

and I am not waiting for whatever’s next.

This is the moment. The dark, the cold,

the inexplicable coziness. This is peace

and I’m not sure how long I can hold on.

It seems I’ve spent years chasing an image

that does not include the grey, aching,

moody wretch I am now- yet… peace?

Stories and diagrams and pictures

all stacked up in my mind or on my table

do not add up to the good I have now.

Yet tomorrow may find me sad and unable

to grasp the good as it flutters around me;

maybe when light has gone again… peace.

I see people moving past my window
and I just want to tell them
there’s no better place here or there;
it’s all the same.

I used to think the sandy beach was
worse than the loamy forest floor,
that the smell of diesel was better
than the faint aroma of ball point ink.

I remember racing to intercept messages
that would get me a beating
but the frantic race did more damage
with all the possible outcomes in my head.

I am slower now and I can’t tell
if it’s my body or my will submitting,
if it’s weariness of age or beauty of grace
allowing me to breathe.

I want to keep asking questions
but I do not need answers;
I am curious about how the air changes
around different feelings.

I wonder if it is worth checking
how the moonlight will strike tonight.