wind

and so long ago there was a throng of blinding
water for any chance of many circumstance to build
a silent guild to put my heart on a shelf for
myself and wait for it to fall like a plate
onto the concrete and so i waited, complete,
empty, elated, until the last glimmer would fade
in the shimmer of a moment i could describe
as an omen. a final sliver before the drive
and a small tumble into an open ravine of numbness
and i wonder
how did i get here to be alone
with no fear
of no blunder.
and when you turn over a new leaf what you feel
isn't grief, or a beginning, or a real closure
not an exposure to the truth or sinning or your pain
it's what was never there, what was never yours
what you didn't deserve in your youth
and what could never deserve your rain.

On Spring and Other Endings

in March there was an unfamiliar heat
the sun and smog out of each other's reach
the flaxen grass had loosened from the sheet
and caught off guard like martyrs in their speech
old foliage sat exposéd as the snow
dissolving in its filth took in the mud
and sucked itself into the sewage flow
like giant worms emboldened by the flood

a winter sunburn. nothing to compare it to
brash and numb like a summer in heat
that can end without remains
a burial in no coffin
but on the other side of year
my skin is still embroidered with your touch.