a god poem?

Her forehead presses against the window glass.
She is painting breath against fingerprints
and rain stains.

She is hiding behind her heavy sighs
looking into the night and against the moon.
She is leaning in.

She's too young to doubt and too young to believe
She's got virgin thighs and 12 year old dreams
etched in her poetry.

When the lights go out in her bedroom
she thinks about death and other lights
in other rooms.

She's a tree climber with calloused hands.
She's heard of Jesus and the Sandman.
They keep her up at night.

If there's a place for the seeds that fall from the trees
and a place for the people on bended knees
then there's a place for her.

Out the window there must be something.
Out the window there is nothing
but the moon in the sky.

a sonnet of sorts...

He speaks in silhouettes of her
outlining each curve
and flaw in each year
each vowel
envokes a scent of her
each pause-

He speaks in silhouettes of her
and i want to drag
my finger along each fissure
in the sketch, each break
in the seemingly solid line.
He is a monument
sketched in memories


locked in an artist's eye
so i will be a passer by.

supertunias

a tiny pinch
between my thumb nail
and index finger removes
the newest growth
from the supertunias
that fill the nursery.

each one has a stem or two
over reaching-falling
more to one side then the other.
So we pinch it back. forcing
their growth in other directions.

First a seed, then shoot, and stretch
and above it all, the first attempt
at a bud. But with the ease
of tip and nail, I snip
off the chance, leaving only an indent
on my thumb.

if only it was this simple
to obey, like nature sometimes will,
and redirect
all new green
still vying for your light.

yellow cat's remarks on his first winter

I paw at the dangling
cloth she has thrown
around her neck
and watch her slide
on another layer of skin
before she steps outside.

And from the window sill
I see her dig
a path down
to the darker dirt
moving the now interrupted whiteness
into piles.

This is what they do
when the ground swells
overnight and swallows
up everything on it.

The new dirt burns her cheeks
and when she comes inside
there are tears still dripping
from her eyes and chin.
The white earth clings
to her thick layers
and hangs from her hair.

She says she has shoveled.

And from her heavy breath
and slow motion movements
I know this means "defeat".

beneath the ice

3 days since our last conversation
and your words press
through the phone
like you're stepping
onto a frozen lake in early january.

Treading slowly past the familiar

I can picture you, on the edge
of your bed, shirtless, in your ripped
plaid boxers, taking off your socks, one
then the other
and our green candle we would light at night
and our clear blue dishes that the farm gave us
and our jade plant.

we’re almost tip toeing now
“when will you visit?”, he says.
I can still smell you on my lips if I try hard enough.

and when you say good bye
my name spills out of your mouth
like a stranger or a lost lover
or like a muffled crack from beneath the ice.