isn’t it sweet
gray morning
when the sun comes bursting
making me think of spring
isn’t it a gift
from God
in the middle of sadness
to be so warm

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The shortest day of the year

I sit in the dark–eyeing the window
the sky still stark, the dozen odd
apples clinging to the tree out back
slow about preparing my coffee I.V.
that life-blood we cling to
as the sun presents itself

It is slow coming, like me
the scent of coffee out of place in this darkness
the pillow calling back to me–‘linger a while’
my fingers on the keys tapping along
while my family slumbers
and day takes its sweet time to show

A glint of light says it is time, the
finger of God across the sky speaking ‘patience’
for in time all will be revealed
the plodding boots of winter, and the sun
that same star that brightens summer
will get in your eyes like every other day

quick, be in it
before it slips back behind the clouds
to hide with the gold
like leprechauns

screaming kettle

come to me you stolen moments
those pseudonymous pleasures
walk the night with me for the day
as lovely as it was, hung very chill
your touches and glances, never
will I forget how they sank to bone
even when I was content
I felt more or less alone, without
the comfortable stroke of fingers
down my naked thigh, their magic
part of me at the cellular level
your lips in my ear calling me ‘petal’
ignoring the screaming kettle
intermittently making me sigh

Kinder

coffee-and-tea-bw

I am in the kitchen writing out my life
Chopin is in the living room, urging me not to quit
the sadness (over breakfast) and a hurried car ride
heavy and burdensome

I don’t care (I said) because of course
I care more than life itself
but if I have to give up my life
in the process (I don’t care)

Then what is the purpose of living
this strangling, overarching plot
that no one would buy
is dancing in my last nerve

So it is like this. That you will
treat me kindly in the future
and I will continue to write my life
both wonderful and terrible, and
this is the contract I bid you sign

scopophiliac

what do you want to know
I see you watching
the movements I make
so deliberately
you never see me
unguarded
for I know you are there

I suppose it is the kinks
that attract you
or maybe the supposed innocence
you sense in my eyes
but I know too much
if it is incorruption
you’re looking for

too much time has passed
for me to get that look back
the regret fogging over
the twisted part of my brain
always making something dirty
out of it
out of your words
supposedly innocent

and other words
like redemption and mercy, and
forgiveness
seem to escape your notice
for they are not shiny
and do not stroke you
when the nights
are just too long

5:25 a.m.

split the sky

A crimson streak has split the sky
ten minutes before coffee
having woke in the darkness at 3:30

What do I owe You for this spectacle
in the middle of fractured thoughts
letting the clouds break for just this now

Hanging full and heavy these clouds
like full breasts, they
threaten to burst out but then do not

Hovering gray and pendulous
with just this slash of red
surrounded by periwinkle and ash