Words in my head grew into my throat,
violent and teeming as weeds
but the moment they disguised themselves with petals
you uprooted them,
pulled out a thought so it wouldn't deceive,
and then
a sigh, tender, as dandelions.
Blown away with a wish.
A cento poem
Have you forgotten what we were like then
A prism of delight and pain
only for one another.
And now: it is easy to forget
we are dismembered.
Your hand in mine
on cold trains and windy platforms
fragments of a jigsaw puzzle
hand-size and never seeming small.
And I'm startled awake by the sound of creaking glass
between me and the morning.
while you, of course, had vanished without a trace.
A spontaneous poem, Forest Hill, about 1pm today
Out in the very middle of the intersection
where there were no cars coming through
as they normally would do, hectic, cross and crossing
from different directions,
there was just sun.
We had to stop for a moment and acknowledge
how unusually peaceful it was
standing in the middle of the road
but not getting in the way
of anything but sun.
A poem for the past
When night came your eyes would turn
on the clock, into tombstones
and in a manic sort of prayer, you'd bow
your eggshell bones
that never did break
and I never knew how
or why I so stubbornly chose not to learn.
