One Wheel
What I Could Hear
Winter Story
Sick with the Sun

What to Say
Hiking a Mountain...
North for Winter
When I love you...
Seven Hours
The Morning After
Learning to Drive
Place of White Plains
Green on Blue...
The First Time...
How I Am
For hours...
Enter June dusk...


The unextinguished lights falling from the greening
grasses—I’m tired of the early night. You
are there with no sly remark, not dead
but finally dying in a yellow pasture overcome
by fallen snow that never reaches, only breaks the moment
when our lips meet—not in a casket but at the edge
of a long relationship. I am the silence in every car,
the strangeness of the young violent winds—
I am strangled awake from unmemorable dreams;
airborne, you are carried by the breaths of the risen,
unable to leave the mountain between valleys.

The earliest trucks and farmers may
be working across the land but this is not
a day in the arms of the living—a body dissipates
with the dew, the cold rays of light cross
the ground with a soft but steady weight.
My work refuses to start; the dead will eat and
grow fat off a world in transition—even new love is scarred
by the division of days, falling to the outstretched
moment when the morning refuses its call
and the great birds of awakening
sing from a cage of smaller voices.

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