forsooth
not all get a balcony
and pretty words
romance
is not scripted
but I have heard
fancy is responsible
for an upsurge in wishes
micropoetry
rough sunrise
my eyes are brown
yours are blue
that’s good too
this poem needs work
it’s true
I planted seeds
that never grew
I woke up blue
I spilled my coffee
smoke signals
from a passing car
smell like longing
and leftover Christmases
never used up
don’t worry
about the trash in your yard
it’s not
from my yard
it’s from all the thoughts
that heap up
in the middle of the storm
whirling
with a gig of their own
politicians lie
too often to be trusted
and so I will lie
under this red maple tree
where none lie not even birds
take the toast corners of life
and wipe up all the wet bits
the strobe light moments
that turn on the cells
and go down good with sunrise
your delicate memory
will be my ornament
(when you are cold
to me)
my blood’s
a soldier burning
another coffee break
he did not try to coax me
so we just lay there
counting leaves as they fell
trying to talk to ravens
somewhere in the trees
falling asleep delirious from sickness
suddenly upon me on a cool foggy morning
I dreamt there was a bee around me
frantically trying to catch it as one
might cup a firefly in the palms
then realizing I could get stung I told myself
open your hands open your hands it will sting you
but they didn’t move for anxious moments
feeling the wings flutter the fat yellow black body
against my skin finally the sides of my hands
unglued I pulled them apart
and the bee hovered then flew
rain requires poets answer
typically I reply
often silent until
I have something to say
then you can’t shut me up
about who it is
that can’t stop crying
from the sky
