i have nothing to give
you, no handful of flowers
or mouthful of words,
no sweet lies or stark truths
i don’t know anything
and the world is an ugly place
Tip-toeing through the ossuary,
she hummed
a song of sweet mercy
in the undulating moonlight.
Her steps were not careful
and her path was not straight
but she tossed aside worries
of a world sucking away her dreams
like a famished whore in a grimy back alley
and moved to the mossy hill
that smelled like home.
speak easy with lightning
and fantasies fly
from the olive grove
Our Storm
I know what I’ll wear when we meet:
a dress of fire and jewels of rain.
Nothing more need brush my skin
except your gaze.
When we touch,
mountains will whisper
and trees may roar.
My heartbeat will follow
the sure sound of your step.
Nothing will need to be sung
that hasn’t flown before.
When we touch,
a storm will make way
for a new landscape.
I’ll always burn
Red stays on the tip of my tongue
because I think I’ll always burn.
(Fly away with me.
We’re seared sensory memories.)
No matter how much I look to the sky,
I taste skin and life and salt.
The Word Rummager 