The Empty begs audience
even on a lush green morning.
I cannot hold it at bay long.
I cannot remember my dreams when awake.

I hold my heart too closely now
to admit sentiment better tucked away
carefully between line breaks.

The illusion of a watcher
to protect me has been lost
in a place where the sky is so big,
it swallows both fear and hope.

She wanted to tell him
her new disappointments
but their conversations read like lyrics
for a punk band,
elevating her uncomfortably.

Trying to find a poem about railroads
somehow led to the revelation
that he wrote a book once
that’s been forgotten.

She spent ten minutes online shopping
for a plaid watchband
and hasn’t worn a watch in six years.

They turn their feed over and over,
waiting for the post that will settle them.

It’s quite simple;
when you pry greyed sleep
away from the vibrant landscape
at the ends of your fingers,
what becomes the focus
is not Who or Why
or even When
but just sensation,
taken deep inside
like a belonging
without question.

Take the blurry blue dream
as it spills
out of your ear
Yes, it’s summer
and the dreams are long like late shadows
but no one else need know
how dark your days
or inner song
What you do with your time
is between you and your shadow
and it is such a deep blue,
it might as well be the sky-swallowed sea.