Wednesday, February 27, 2013

figs and lovers

old lovers will be old lovers
will be broken hearts on a pavement
expanding on a bed of dementia
silhouette's on a postcard
watering graves
a fig on a tree branch in the middle of winter

Sunday, February 10, 2013


 gentle hands cross to stroke the sunlight cradling your eyes. sinking letters narrate secret sorrows at dusk.  feverish hope rises with the clinking of glasses against the nestled moon. the words, the letters, the sounds become a frail attempt to fill in the absence, your place. it's a jarring heatless silence and i'm sorry for my abruptness, but this absence always returns in blackness, insistently invading.