for the singer with the cyanide eyes

 

Maybe this
winter
will be easier;

maybe there is hope beyond frost;
maybe our breath will jut
in steamy tomorrows

across a river that never
freezes; maybe your dreams will dream yet
tachycardic, wild and blue,

like the pulse of the ocean,
muffling the deaths that lie spread-
eagled across decades,

hissing obscenities
under the bedspread, the deaths
that smell ever-so-softly

of overripe promises,
understated like
magnolia blossoms

at the end of summer…
like secrets for a December
no man has seen.

re: the first falling star

this poem
is written under a gray sky,
looking out, poem-level,
at the power lines & december-naked
branches.

it has never smelled heather
in winter; it prickles
with gooseflesh but won’t
let you turn on the heat.

this poem
says: you must make
your own fire. it owes me
nothing. like you, it dreams
in cats.

this poem has no hands.
it sleeps naked. it likes
summer nights and
long walks under the stars.

this poem
is winter on paper,
a message in a bottle
washed upon a cold
Atlantic beach.

its breath steams,
champs, hisses &
waits for us, all, melting,
in the dark.