Lost in Transition

The horizon blurs
any distinction
between sea and sky.
in long undulations,
in long ululations,
I am at sea,
no rocks
to crash against.
Like pyroclastic flows
cascading down
a ridge line,
my shell cracks,
then shatters.
Something glistens,
for a moment,
in the sea swell.
Which fragment is mine?
Which some other
I’ve taken on?
this chrysalis
will not break;
the wren’s egg’s intact.
I am still,
and cannot breath;
one must stay silent.

(February 25, 2017)

Each Moment an Act of Violence

You move through mirrors;
your reflections’ shards glisten
red visions through your eyes.
You parse bits of time, and
the air undulates in waves
shredding skin past bone.
At aperture’s erasure,
a facet forms as in a fly’s
eye’s shattered dreams,
and you fall between
fragments and trellised
roses’ sharper thorns:
less who you were,
until what you became.
(October 4, 2016)

I Wake Into Myself Yet Again

Memory’s fickle nature turns
all nuance into fragments.
I hold the trembled bits
between my fingertips,
as if I could discern
one moment from the next;
separating fine gradations
like diamond dealers sweeping
stones one pile to the next
with an easy dexterity. I shudder,
like an old bull to the yoke,
beneath the variables framing
all the doors within doors,
until the still life’s vanishing
point collapses into one
I must be for my time left.

(August 5, 2016)

mea culpa

There is a confession
I will not confess;
this is it. I have no hands
to offer solace, or beg
forgiveness of neglect.
Between desire and denial,
self-abnegation parses
the day-to-day trespasses
into shards. With bloody fingers,
I shape my fragments into mosaics,
abstract and mono-chromatic,
until simpler to believe.
My guilt inculcates the air,
and then I drown.

(July 2, 2016)


broken-toothed clocks’
sprockets grind and
stutter through their hours
as you draw near
become borders
abstract and armed
with misunderstanding’s
bitter truculence
with thick black swaths
your understanding’s clichés
inscribe these tropes
between our vague edges
I ask forgiveness
for sins
not quite committed
for possibilities
not enacted
as doubt’s consequence
and oblivious indecision
bloomed virtue’s flower
through omission
here is my undoing
there my failure
this trust in what I say
as replicable in you
as a rose to a rose
within the same bush
echoes one to the other
as if time is enough to grow
from these broken thorns
scattered across the ground
a reconciliation which is whole
(May 15, 2016)

proximity’s not necessary

decaying parchment
scattered on the floor
within fragment’s hints
whisper a mind held
still in a brush stroke’s
partial rendering
signs retained in ink
no need to hang on
every word we hear
memory’s beyond
the living fossil
inherent in us
memory’s no more
true than our desire
to shape past’s beliefs
to fit our present
like light in shadows
through diaphanous
curtains at sunrise
her soft breath lingers
at your tone deaf ear
 a line vanishes
before it’s written
(April 19, 2016)


I have nothing to offer tonight,
my bones hang slack like puppets
dropped on the theater floor.
Such tithes fall with soft alterations,
minute differences to tangle vaguely
like the cracks along a tortoise shell;
more broken auguries scattered
across a mendicant’s bed to wait
upon a new kind of prayer.
Whispered ululations ribbon sorrow
through the day’s transitional phrases
until we drown  in its white noise.
A silence drapes, like wet ash,
upon every potential charm
a priest could mask us with.
I find comfort in these shadows,
the side chapels tucked along
the familiar stations of the cross.
The empty sanctuary swallows
all sounds. Even footsteps rise
like bits of dust, then die.
And what is death but a sigh?
A return to the transient air,
like leaves into the earth.
I still hear the shape of her
voice, like distant outlines
of smoke between battered trees.
So many traces still remain:
genetic markers, slight scents,
our last conversations.
Fragmented nights and days
of innuendo and misinterpretation
slip away in bashful innocence.
My memory’s a mosaic
I piece together, reshaping
regret and hope, yet again.
I worry over echoes whose origins
no longer can be traced back
to her voice laughing nearby.

(October 10, 2015)

Humpty Dumpty

Within shadow’s ubiquitous longings,
my life’s mosaic shards rattle
like bones in a leather cup.
Each move’s coupled to regret,
a chain forged in doubt’s certainty
fixed tight to all my corners.
I lie broken in a crevasse,
a fissure torn through my heart,
like love letters casually discarded,
or the dust of dried flowers
that tremble from the pages
of a book I gave her years ago.
Nothing remains of the nothing there;
there were no pieces to go missing.

(July 10, 2015)