In love and horny,

I know, it’s corny

But:

the leaves and the trees,

the birds and the bees,

the flora and the fauna,

the heat in a sauna,

I used to party impossible summers—
white-faced cliffs with money whispering,
harbors tucked behind unmarked stones,
no clicking cameras over cheap florals—
and sea-light turning rich boats into diamonds.

untitled

Do your eyes wake heavy—

do some mornings find them so?

Mine see a wound I did not make alone—

the wound isn’t me, or even all the world,

but hands that hide the light beneath a fate

not ours.

Utitled

to see doesn’t end

the mystery

or some desire —

it transforms it.

The Quiet

I’ve leaned my white faces to a wall:

Now they keep their mouths closed—

color has been too eager to confess.

The brushes lie rinsed and sunned—

their bristles call out to my wrists

and my hands that once moved un-trembling.

Carrying It