Preserve

Like remnant threads

lifted from the floor,

I collect shreds of shadows

from my heart. Then later,

when the room’s dark,

and the nights grow long,

I pack them tightly in a jar

and place them on a shelf.

Some nights, I’ll rise from

sleep into the dark, and sneak

a slice of one from a jar;

And in an ecstatic occlusion

to shroud what I’ve become,

I dance bodly beneath the moon.

(November 22, 2019)

I’m Not Looking for a Saint

When I read a poem, the voice

of another being is enough.

Someone extant in the world

who for this moment speaks,

resonant with each leaf,

with each burgeoning flower.

I do not expect epiphany

to fall from Spring’s mouth

for that would not be true;

truth grows in retrospect,

a mirror to distort the past

reshaped to an image more divine.

All gods are just us

without desire for more.

(November 7,2019)

The FrogPrince Without Standing

He sat by his pond content

with the depth of his longing.

Then one day, she dropped in

laughing her way into his dream.

He thought he heard a splash,

and a glimmer near the bottom.

She played along the pond’s edge,

waiting for what he might bring.

When he returned to the surface,

the forest was dark and she was gone.

The castle was so far away—

and it was just a toy after all.

He sat by his pond discontented

with the depth of his longing.

(November 4, 2019)