Monday, September 28, 2015


Not a chance

he ever will stand straight

again, my leaning tower,

my listing, sinking ship,

my stuck in the rut stage coach,

my train wreck.

Those perfectly vertical

days are history.

Oh they were sweet! 

Remember how we stood 

before that judge straight 

as two cypress trees, vowing 

fidelity for better and worse

(through unimaginable 


standing still, unbendable, 

reaching as if our strength would last 

for centuries, as if we were more 

than what we are--bodies that list 

to one side before they fall 

to the ground and blow away 

like flour dust.

After midnight

After midnight, I think of him 

thrashing on the ground

and I long for him to go

without farewell 

without a plan.

I wish him to step into the plane 

and sit his tall self into a wide chair

by the window and watch

the bay disappear 

under the clouds 

and watch the clouds 

form a bed 

just for him.  

I wish him to drink a cold beer 

on his way to that other realm

where there is only one 

season and it is spring, 

where there are only arrivals 

no departures, 

where he will be whole again.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

At the seashore

I burst open there. 

I am only air. 

But I don't forget him my

curled caterpillar on our bed 

in heavy sleep since Monday, 

barely a twitch, his body so slowed.

The radiant blues splash and feed me. 

I'm a hatchling with beak open snapping 

at the sea, it drops into my throat--

that foam and the songs about foam. 

But he, he is motionless on the bed.

I wonder what images flash 

under those lids while  I gorge 

on miles and miles of wet and living blue 

with two narrow clouds hovering 

like eyebrows and the sea all around 

splashing me damp and the moon 

silver and quiet rising over my brows, 

its bright light pouring into my veins 

like crack.  

But I can't forget him 

who lays curled on our bed. 

Friday, September 18, 2015


Maybe his kidneys will spout roots 

and grow anew.

Succulents do.

Maybe my weak parts

can refresh too.

I like to think souls wander

all day but float back at night

when we need them most, here

in the dark one needs a hand, 

even one made of air, 

to guide the way

to silence

without tears.