But with hand outstretched,
reaches to touch the face,
symbolic act of love
traces along the edge of cheek,
down the jawbone,
and the eyes say more
without the aid of words,
than the mouth ever could.

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On The Other Side

The eyes grow heavy
with sleep,
pull at the psyche,
until flipped,
(on the other side),
they open
to another life
yet, how rare
we remember.

But remember,

before the dark
sinks into the light,
and the eyes open
to the waking life,
that the psyche
brings back with it,
how in dreams
you loved me.

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Perhaps it is the length of days,
and counting,
where time becomes a sound
and weight,
of waiting,
for had I not before?
been listening,
perhaps I would have heard,
the hearing,
for all the things I’ve said,
for saying,
perhaps it was he loved,
so simply,
for love requires not,
a reason,
when love, it knows no reasoning.

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  • Maybe I’m saving up the words,
    and in what order
    I might deliver
    what I’ve been storing
    in my heart.
    What I’ve kept,
    and what I’ve discarded,
    that maybe one day
    it might make sense
    to whomever pulls
    these letters
    from the box.
    Pieces of a lifetime,
    fragments really,
    of just one way of seeing
    this experience called life.
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and as if
I haven’t tried
to pull
the string,
but feel
the insides
growing tighter
with all
these words
now tied
I’m no longer
sure of
what I want or
need to say,
but it feels
as though
I must unravel;
under, over,
through loops
and circles
in hopes
of untangling
what I
should not
have kept
myself from
spilling out
in ink.

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Change Is In The Air

Change is in the air

like a blue lizard hides
in a crack in the sidewalk
and eyes you with
one wary eye,

but you are not a bird,

who sits and sings
in the branches
of the trees,

who’ve grown
so tired of the heat
and their heavy leaves,
that they yawn and yearn
for Winters sleep,

for in their roots
a blue lizard will dream.

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Prairie Dream

Summer feels heavy now,
with thoughts muddled by headache
caught in a cloud where the rain falls
in sheets, sheets, and more sheets,
tied to the clothesline
where the wind whips them clean,
but the air is too hot, still, and sticky
to be this kind of prairie dream,
so instead it’s the concrete,
and the noise of the city after the rain,
and the sound of the tires the cars make,
all rushing, rushing, in such a hurry
to throw behind them Summer,
now, as heavy as Sunflowers
who have bent their faces towards
the ground – with the weight of seeds.

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Clair de Lune

But if only the day could play on
as slow as Clair de Lune,
as though it could almost stop
and turn itself on wistful heels,
it would. I know it would.
And so it shall, and always does!
Every night, the day retreats
for the beauty of the moon.

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Happily Undone

For what loose thread have you caught
weaved throughout this form
and pulled so unexpectedly?
Was it snagged on cuff links,
or buttons, or the buckle
to your timepiece?
For am I not unraveling
more and more,
to feel this; such a continuous
pull I have not known, or have I?
Irregardless, I shall be happily undone.

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This Moment Is

One of those moments
when something strikes
as so ordinary
it becomes extraordinary
when you least expect it
and that inner voice says,
“yes, this! make note
of this!” whatever
this moment is,
and so you jot it down
because you don’t want
to forget; the color of
a sunset, or the sound
of the crickets, or the way
his hair looked and reminded
you of disheveled
salt and pepper
you just wanted to run
your hands through it,
to feel the weight
and thickness of everything
life presents to you
as a constant wonder
unfolding, like origami
backwards almost
spells imagine
how a piece of paper
becomes a swan.

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