When Thursday can’t decide
if there’s many truths or just one big one;
when there’s terror in the imaginings
of the child inside all of us- a child
who still needs to be tucked in
but that’s silly so the tucking no longer
exists out loud;
when the only song playing
is off key with a full head of steam;
when endings don’t seem so awful
because it’s just our dust mingling
with other dust so there’s no real end;
when the bucket is full and we’re thirsty;
when our reach is exactly right
for what we need.

Brown shadowy shapes
resting near a morning curtain
A willing spirit gulps yellow air
and chokes slightly on the gift

Emerging not knowing if we face
redemption or more cruelty

I’m desperate for more time
but anticipate relief at the end
These don’t feel like the right steps
if there’s a way to finish gracefully

Both man and bed were equally
creased and stale
after a night of abandon
involving chips, beer, a sofa,
and many many regrets from the week
and as he sat on the edge,
he glanced at his briefcase
as it lay haphazardly on the floor
and he shouted,
“Is that all there is?!”

A hushed frenzy
I can see so far backward

It’s nice in the dark
Watching shapes change

Will you stay
The boxes are full but not sorted

The air here makes me dizzy
Maybe I’m not breathing right

Pulled through hallways
Home is always further away

They watched us from the hill
Dust swirled in the night like a galaxy

Belief is in a fern
Roots are not meant to be forever

Let’s unlatch the fence
Wild things will become overgrown