and then, fall.

Only dead leaves fall from trees
dead--fiery brilliant.
Dried and brittle.
But these are those
we love the most:
press them between their brothers
between bindings on our shelves.
Autumn crisp and clean
means death to leaves
and a fall
like my heart
to your hands.

Gravity.

There’s an aspect of terror,
being with you;
one I know I can’t control.
And I cannot see my fingers
in the brightness of the day.
My skin is dried and burning
and my head spins in orbit,
But the gravity is yours.

The Bubble Makes a Startling Escape.

Freed! At last
from the masses
to bounce along
(as light as air)
and filled with a breath
of Life.
Dancing as if born
for nothing else.
Floating away
to spectacularly die
on a blade
(of grass).

The City.

I see the city crumble.
I see the people fall.
I hear the back and forth of Hope and Joy
sloshing over the sides of a bowl
too full of anger and doubt to carry anything else,
held by a man too distracted by Money and Fame
to realize the value of what’s dripping over his fingers.
I see the children laughing and playing
with rocks
and knives
and guns,
not even knowing the terrors occurring just around the corner.
I see the sky
and I scream at the people around me, but mostly they ignore me and keep walking.
And the people who stop ask me
please to just be quiet.
But if they could see it.
The city,
the people,
the Hope and the Joy,
the Anger and the Doubt,
the Money and the Fame,
the children,
the guns,
the Terror,
the sky,
I know I know they would stop.
They would forget their cars and tee-times.
They would join me
on the corner of Reason and cry out
why oh why don’t they see?

Welcome.

I welcome the rain as he walks in my door;
wrap my arms around his damp, skinny body.
He soaks my sleeves—
cools my skin.
He walks through the hall,
each foot leaves
pools of tears, oceans, rivers
evaporated. transformed.
I press my face to his bitter chest
he runs down my cheeks
leaves trails and streaks.
He whispers in my ear a rhythm of nothing.
He wraps me in sheets of sound
hollow. patternless.
And when he leaves
I cry him—
and he runs down my cheeks
leaves trails and streaks.
I cry,