We’ve made routine
of love
an oversight
born of excess

It’s clear now
coming from an else
that we can’t see
the end

Stuck as we are
to find future
free from past

Shut your eyes
and grab my hand
lest you look back
to find me gone

Word Press

An official diagnosis
makes it hard to shrug
material witnessed
by ostensible experts
reduced to prodding
at periodic check ups

Increasingly infrequent
as this patient
pretends at health
at hope that meaning
might remake itself
in the interim

For now patchwork
holes in language
where facsimiles fit in
covering branded flesh
that fabric has failed
to make whole


Our words are numbered
a phrase that amounts
to a fatalistic view
on language
and relationships

It’s not that though
more poorly placed hyphen
than well meaning coda
more journey
than end

It’s a smile
at our last syllable
a happiness
in silence
with nothing left to say

Station Agent

I’ll be listening to this track
for years to come
waiting for the train
to take me to you

It’s gone
and we know it
your olive branch broken
with little pomp

Unfamiliar cruelty
worked into words
I thought I knew
a love that scares me still

That last receipt
I’ve read a hundred times
read the day I sent it
never to reply