Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Epitaph










scrape away the black ink
those particles of bits & pixels from the white white white
scrape them into the mason jar kept in your pocket
for
summer's fireflies & lunar moths
tumbled brilliance secreted for the corner-times
the grey days of winter long
scrape
and
hold the lid down tight as you press it to the fire-line
skin allows such porous knowing
lean against the trail of snow along the willow bark
lean & fill
with the enormity of the domed misty gray
capture this biting chill--this clutched sting
shake the jar
and
delight
in the ordinary comfort
of
chaos & contrast

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

it is what it is

there is a trembling to my sternum
cacophonous and startling
like a bird trapped
against the wire
there is the sky but I can not touch it
feathers singing to a moon tucked upon the cusp of highway
sun lies
love dies
there is no warmth
merely a shadowing of clouds to the density of winter
trembling trembling
I feel you there brushing against my shoulder like a ghost
there is a depth
terrifying--tight
narrowing to spring's promise
delight hides from eyes accustomed to the dark
there is a trembling to my days
cacophonous and startling
in their hollow
like a bird trapped
there ....