time travel

the thought of

reaching out my hand and touching

yours has become so

distant

to me

to think we used to see each other everyday

the feeling of my fingertip on your

knuckle

one I'll never take for

granted again

Of ours

The fence is broken here and there

barbed wire dragged down by roots and grass

I thought it pliable, unafraid, stepped over.

The earth squelched and the sun 

was the dust off an old book snapped shut 

but bright enough to bleed my eyes 

of bad blood, so my hand I raised

to shield me. 

I heard birds and jungle-beasts

in that canyon, 

lost to the wild, groping. 

These little violets in a tin cup,

struggle to root, spurt and

flower. 

winter

thick pine smoke and

milky white moonlight settle

over the flat roofs

and empty lots

chapped lips, wind, 24 degrees outside

the neon lighthouse beams of

the oatmeal factory

string me home

I alight on sidewalks

let my footsteps flutter like moth wings

and carry me to the closest light

light here, light there

the streetlamps along

the sidewalks:

bread crumbs someone

has left for me, all promise

but no warmth

just put me in an
oven already

he cannot pretend
that he doesn't notice the way
his own eyes drift over
his body, his arms, his legs
the way his face changes
a subconscious effort

he wonders why god has
decided that infuriatingly
stupid boys can become
the bane of every existence
set as seals upon one's heart
upon one's arm

something you can't scrub away
        when you're in the shower