You at the Gate

Should you ever decide

to stop by the house,

you’ll find me

where you left me

when you drove away.

Here on our porch

for much of the night,

I turn cigarettes into piles

of ash and sit

rocking,

rocking—

you’re

out there

somewhere.

Though the summer dust freezes

under snow globe glitter,                    

it will rise again when

the heat returns.

Maybe one day you’ll hang

that left through our gate

and rattle up the gravel

in your teal Toyota.

I’ll bow my head

in your neck

your gentle frame in

my tingling arms.

I never really

deserved you anyway.

I know I was the faithless one:

betraying our rings,

believing their lies,

raiding your drawers

with my distrust.

You collected your things,

but mine are still strewn.

I can’t seem to fix

what’s so thoroughly broken.

Lit Up Magazine, October 2008

.

Canary

 Fake flowers and liniment bottles don’t rot

though decades back their owners last left

the locks unturned. 

Now explorers scatter dust and feathers,

searching dates in piles of papers

under a caged upturned breastbone.

A song long ago slipped its wires,

burst the sofa window, dissolved into
ocean of wide open sky.

Random Sample, May 2016



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