Safe Passage

Amid twilight’s slow dance,

along a moment’s periphery,

always some other lurks close,

whispering him toward the rocks:

“Don’t stop. Over here, no here.

Somewhere other than where

you are, someone other

than the person you are.”

As the voices rattle like bones

in a box longing to be heard,

he barely notes the susurrations,

never knowing where he goes.

Thus, the lackadaisical waves

slip him limply past the shore.

(January 16, 2019)

an interrupted narrative

how long before
a narrative interrupted
falls, unfinished, out of memory
like a book mark from a book of poetry
left on a bus seat—he has nothing
nothing but guilt
heaved like a sad walrus
up onto the beach bellowing
a song of love, unrequited
and joyous—even now
not much is left to rescue
to lift into metaphor
like a place holder at table
for a guest, a friend
who never knew she was invited
who do you think she was,
a manifestation he muttered
into himself, a description
of another life—like honey
poured from a cold cup
a slow infatuation
slid like an echo through him,
a storm’s destruction
in her path, unintended,

unnoticed by all but him
(December 21, 2016)


he wanted up the stairs
the polished marble stairs
though nothing was there
except strands of golden hair
which cried beware beware
there is nothing here
go back now do not stare
for your desires no one cares
still he asks are you there
were you there are you there
then listens to the silent air
to melodies vaguely clear
no doubt’s cast too sincere
to catch his tone deaf ear

(December 11, 2015)