Crush It



“yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me”

                        —Malvolio, 12th Night, William Shakespeare




I wasn’t one of them,

I just want you to know—

I wasn’t like those others

She said almost as if she

Believed what she said


He smiled and nodded

As she said it again

But he knew as well

As she that she was one

Of them and was the same


But he was in love and wanted

Her to be what he wanted

Her to be not with those

Who were those who giggled

And mocked his doleful thoughts


Not that he cared then or now

He was in love then as now

And wonders now why she

Wanted him so badly to know

She wasn’t one of them



(December 24, 2017)

as I speak



let me define you

not as the fantasy

you think you know

as the one who listens

but the transcendent you

who listens vaguely

into silence

as the roiling dark

devours your edges

like slow kisses

traced across

your tense skin

until you vanish

beneath the words


(December 16, 2017)

Surety’s Loss



I hear your voice still,

But as a whisper.

The words wisp, like mist,

And shift shape as lisped

Past context’s vague edge.

What was said lingers,

A cold recompense

To hold this absence.


(December 14, 2017)




my voice falls

to less

than a whisper


as I become


than a ghost


to you who heard

less than I

could ever say


to you who were

always more

to me


than a whisper

in a poem


(November 25, 2017)




Morning’s light kisses

The edges of the elm’s leaves;

I wake to your arms.


(November 23, 2017)

All Fall Down


            Four haiku with a tanka couplet



The last bits of blood

And flesh licked clean long ago

By a parched dead tongue;


The dry wind scatters

Sand across the blasted sky.

No one sees the bones.


What are words, but dust?

An unwritten love letter waits

On lovers to wake.


The bed’s rumpled sheets

Lie tangled across the floor,

Seaweed on the beach.


Unrelenting heat pulses

Well after the setting sun.


(November 5, 2017)


Until I can step through
The hole I leave behind,
I scoop handfuls of dust
From my heart.

(September 27, 2017)

after incomplete statements of desire

Nothing ends,
as nothing happens:
vague and inchoate.
It falls like dust
to fill the invisible
lesions and cracks
carved in your
misguided and mistaken
a passive construct
which required more
to consummate.

(August 29, 2017)

love’s memory

“It is I who decides that its image is dead.”
–Roland Barthes
the flame holds
in fragility
a glow
at wick’s end
then lets go
with finality
a grey
wisp of smoke

(August 3, 2017)


“I have projected myself into the other with such power that when I am without the other I cannot recover myself, regain myself: I am lost forever.”
–Roland Barthes
he flung himself
as with all
his obsessions
fully into the idea
of her
slagging off bits
he became some other
a ghost
to her
to himself
(July 31, 2017)