I want to ask how it feels to be a forest at night,
wood in your lungs.
Tell me the ancient sap suckles at your chest,
that you pine for a spell
of two-glass wine.
It’s negative-three for my plus-one
in this suburb, the
masked in time, this intruder.
No more imperfections
came so suddenly.
(originally published in The Rain, Party, and Disaster Society – August 2015)
Swathed in bedbugs, draped
in the gloom of willing hearts
in collective song maddeningly
swept by enkindled starlight obscured,
fate sprouted flowers along
marshy graves and windtorn spokes
of the ethereal wheel of coincidences,
salvos brisk and violent, precisely when
the window-dead moth inched baby-bug steps,
when you plucked a magic eyelash
from a crook in my face, the numb
morning heat of your breath whispered,
in translation, morose and umber.
Now we wait, sanely, eyes closed,
for all the other things I wished
to bear gold in streets we walk
at night, hand entwined in yours.
(originally published in Glassworks, Fall 2015)
Live a long life, son. Eat noodles on your birthday.
Al dente. Do it every holiday, so I can live on long
past done spaghetti which sticks upon the wall,
frozen in time against the whims of dun sodden
dust and entities beyond the sounds of crying
from the bathroom at 2 A.M. beneath the black-
dripped canvas of luminous lights. The grass, uncut,
reaches far now above the frizzy tips of your hair
(originally published in The Birds We Piled Loosely – Issue #1)