because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse


Searching for the right analogy

Our shadows, like the evening, fall long
and lonely across the soft of new green.
I will cry myself to sleep again tonight,
wake up in the dark of morning to throw
your heavy left hard across my chest.
A man’s gloves are his own, yes; I know.
So I will fight my own fight,
and not ask you to understand. The sun
shines even as it daily dies, but the blossoms
I passed under not a week ago
already brown and fall. What if love
is not a sun but a blossom, and all
the moment we have, this? Will you
still walk alone? Will your strength be enough?

The metaphor is not lost on me

How I tramp through these days in your shoes,
learning to build fences in the early april mud.
There is something very like redemption
in the hardpan, & in the thrust
of shoulders exhuming each fistful
of reluctant dirt. Just as there are many meanings
in un-earth, & some that should stay
buried. Lying next to you at night,
I find comfort in the soft wind
of your inhale; it lessens the sadness by a spade.
There is much that I miss still, or perhaps
it is that I am still searching
for the tools to set the thing right,
to find us plumb again.


in the kitchen, the hyacinth
finally begins to open, its fragrance
still subtle & not enough
to cover the bitter almond
april stain. we are eight days in,
now, & you go better without
me every hour. I don’t know
if the herons will come back;
I should have remembered how it felt
to sleep beside you unwanted.
this is the second poem this morning;
it goes well with burnt espresso.
every hour there is less of me
to love, but at least it is my choosing.


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