it’s a bucket of stars
we carry around
without really looking

so busy, busy but
without peace or mirth
we forget what we are

lugging around our stars
bemoaning the weight
forgetting to let go

There is a big forest not far away
with knowledgeable mushrooms
and moss that can keep secrets
but the stubborn man won’t leave his city,
putting his faith in himself
as he dictates to the birds
how to fill his empty places
but they can’t hear
as they fly above the weather.
Scaling heights cannot be done
just using elevators.
There must be windsong too.

a damask wall
telling tales of beautiful people
doing awful things to each other
(the moon bewitches)

she thought she could hold a fox
but it’s really got to be a loose grip

the fire grows unexpectedly,
as two bodies match up
from different planes
(“we will endure”)

he builds stories
from places of deep pain and mirth

a tapestry, a couple of hearts
searching for misplaced keys
but on a grander scale
(and we are timeless)

The day had no greeting, just another
smudgy sunrise and a stale blanket,
some Frosted Flakes, and a commute
through grey grey grey on every level

Bells made of bone and metal ring out
(toll for thee? why did I go all King James
for a moment?) sounding like slow mornings
as fog settles in for another smothering

Needing an umbrella to deflect insults
and neglect (though that follows us,
doesn’t it, precious?), we are forgotten
and I am again in the third person.