Clips roll past, not fast enough
to be dismissed but not long enough
to memorize every eyelash or hip shimmy.
She is all that is feminine, a treasure,
removed yet familiar.

People venerate her walk
but I see her hunched at the dinner table,
listening to a story, almost like me,
except of course she is much better.

She keeps popping up lately- a memory,
story, photo – and I feel I was there,
not reincarnated or a bystander,
but maybe the odd bird
that flew by or perched just long enough
to see her shiny baubles
and how she cried most nights.

Hurt again and again, it is inevitable
we forget ourselves for a moment,
flying high at some kind words
or a bit of attention, erroneously
thinking we are saved.

I can sit hunched at dinner
while stories swirl about, finding
shiny baubles to cover tears of old hurts.
I would rather be held;
that is the secret behind shuttered eyes.

There’s a big drop off near the stone stairs
so my heart always races as I grasp the tree
and make the turn to step down.

The presentation of lemons is luscious
and beautiful but l’ll be honest:
I don’t care for lemonade or lemon chicken
so what would I do with all the lemons?

A robot monster carried the woman away
but I want to know how it was able to
scoop her off her feet and what plans
did the beast have for her? Mating?
Was she to be dinner?

Pages of lace and well-lit bosoms
and it’s the same now as 1,000 years ago
with variable levels of sand and oil.

Displacing one woman for another
is almost funny except when you’re one
of the women and it’s still funny but
in a way that tears your heart apart.

A lake an ocean a river a stream and
it’s like fire crackling standing twisting
in the air in the imagined confines
that are assembled each time we turn
inwards instead of outwards. Alone.

It’s funny how much time unbelievers
spend trying to reason with the faithful;
do they really think reason will work
in a world that is like a Dali cartoon?

The image of meadows and hazy smiles
blends with the memory of gears and levers
and I think I’m confused about my dreams.

nobody notices
what they don’t want to see
and the feelings well up
threatening to spill messily

a lot of feelings at my edges
are awaiting safe places
like an Italian abbey
or a grotto with lots of cheese

I will eat a salad and lay down,
willfully avoiding prayers of death
feeling all aches that come on Tuesdays

there is little hope but
Wednesdays are unpredictable;
I will imagine us nestled in the hills

I don’t know how it happened.
I was called golden and felt soft
but after awhile, the hits came harder
and I felt leaden and heavy.
Big ideas ruled when I was younger,
-like heaven and the circus and flight-
whereas now I see the value in
what I can touch and see and hear,
how a few bites of bread and a song can be
enough. More than enough when shared.
I don’t remember laughing much
when my brain got in the way
for far too long
but my smile now is pure and unfiltered
as I have learned transience of things;
not everything is a trial or conspiracy
but there are days where joy is hard-won.
Then, it was how grand the sky;
now: how utterly grand the sky!

two birds locked in embrace
hurtling toward the water,
fresh from a bright and promising sky
to a rippling dark place

just for a moment

because that’s all the time we have,
a moment of bliss, a moment
of terror, of hilarity, of grief
before hurtling somewhere else

because we have just enough time

to notice the change in air,
in color, in how it feels to be close
to someone and part of something
before the next moment steals our breath