i saw a tree undress for sleep,

a stoic beauty underneath the leaves

slow revealed in staggered fade,

falling

around a wrist and tracing lines

all rough and darkened, pressed against the sky

simple, naked gesture names

a reach

(then rest)

Awakened by the cold of day

she poses her arms with just enough grace

shivering in slender dance

that betrays her strength to stand

still

a silent structure much more pure

her silhouetted

form against the wind

makes my footsteps

seem

so

vain

when just enough grace sustains her reach

and the beauty of autumn is underneath.

i. amo

i drained the plastic cup too fast

to quench the august afternoon

remembering the august morn

when (for two hours) i sat with you.

cool, your words drenched and fell

on infatuated ears,

off the table, evaporated

you left.

but i though we could re-enact

our sentimental, seated dance

i thought, but then i never asked

you

twenty ounces didn't last

as long as i'd wished them to.

ii. avatar

from a chrome ceremony

next' bicubic glassy glow

flittering in bright-eyes blinking

flirting across the room

and

against the glass

shattering incandescence

reflecting on the vanity

of khaki shawls and earth tone-sneakers

clinking cups

and sounds of lips

sipping

drenched, and dripping

with liquid decadence

dharma evident in air

and smells

iii. eucharist

every time we are, it is

every place we go it sits

(departing) every time it rests

and waits a day for our return

in this place, every friend

a delicately made vessel

the meal isn't on the plate

but in eachother

common room confessional

and sometimes-chapels in our chairs

with cups that sip away our sins

and bread to eat away our fears

you and i are all we need

and it is here, amen

amen.

opportunity cost

are you bitter, mother branch

for weeping such a cost?

a leaf's a love at last sight,

a leaf's a love at loss

are you blind, old man winter,

pruner of all hands?

the cold's a crying forest,

the cold's a woeful land

november yawns at dusk,

til dawn's warm hand

touches her shoulder,

reluctantly, she wakes,

realizing

she's one year older today,

and so am i.

are you safe, darkened room,

a coffin like the ground?

a bed is but a seed's rest,

a bed is not a sound.

are you tired, empty road

of traffic's rumbling drone?

a passing car's a past away

a passing car's gone on,

alone.

and november yawns at dusk,

till dawn's warm face

brushes her shoulder.

reluctantly, she wakes

realizing

she's one year older today

and every time i wake,

i'm also one year older

than the day the trees began to cry

and this place became colder.

1962

you spoke a concrete womb,

a people being born

in a distant land away

from your only son,

they said your temples saved

and praised you when you came

neglected your departure

on a bathroom floor.

but to his eyes that saw

the towers same as they

and edifices stoic,

passion's abstract face,

saw ev'ry mocking ray

and shadow on the wall

remnants of a distant sun,

name without a sound,

every brick a tombstone

failed affections' resting,

and memories of your face

a dead-beat god of one.

now i cry with God,

paling is my artform

sounding up to His,

weakness under strength

thunder swallows heartbeats

storm drains swallow tears

even my delusions have delusions.

i can't blow kisses
sometimes,
and if by respiration
i sigh,
the leaves off of trees
like ideas dying,
like the torn-out pages
will only reach the ground
blinks before fate

is a funny word,
worn like a coat button,
worn like a shoe
it's alone in the cold.

sometimes,
i'm sorry for my lungs
to take in air
inside your door,
as if i did not walk
here in the cold
taking of my coat
for you-
but i am no leaf,
or page torn-out,
so i'm sorry if
i breathe a breath
of self-preservation.