[Somatic Night]

All our landlocked blues belong to the ocean,
our bodies and our storms. There are 600
miles of blood vessels within us all, an island
of seaweed and vein in each leg and arm.
It’s true. The sea hides whats most beautiful
below. Our reflection is no match for that
multi-dimensional void. A wave gives birth
to many more waves, an endless cycle
of breath lipping over ribs of coral. This is
how the body empties itself. Each ripple
a small beat pulled by the heartstrings
of the moon. There is love to be found here.
Just watch as a starfish opens her five brittle
arms, a small ready soul moving through
that abysmal depth, through that skinless
salt water, reaching out, as we all do,
for something solid to hold.

[You Said The Last Thing The World Needs Is Another Love Poem]

This is how it begins. We argue about which Carolina
we’d rather live in. Silly. I’m almost sober enough
to cry, because parked in my mind is a car that feels
like August inside, always. It is human to want
warmth. I’ve decided all the needed things look better
on the shelf. We number our years, our birthdays,
our marriages, our wars and are none the wiser for it.
Think about it. In the end we will be alone
with our hangovers. It’s amazing how little this matters.
If given enough time every poem becomes a love letter
to the dead, paper ghosts on a mission to leave a mark,
but the sky is the emptiest place I know, as are poems,
like distant Christmas lights on a house we will never own.

[In A Parallel Universe We Are Moths]

This streetlight dome is our milky way.
The stars dropping down to sleep
in the reflection of puddles and glass,
a violent beauty come to rest. We are
in awe of the pavement, a deepness lit
with a sort of wet electricity, a confused
silhouette. Watch as these last late hours
bend softly to make a moon.
When the sun rises it will erase our private
horizon, but for now this beauty is ours
alone. Restlessness carries
the silver grudge of a dingy wing from
cocoon, to worm, to winged gypsy.
Even from this meager height we can see
what settles in the amnesia of dark. This is
the afterlife of a memory. We were here
and then we were gone. Tell me why
we must love the fire. Tell me why
the warm wind of a distant porch light
feels like home.