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.

distance

one day you wake
from no nightmare in particular
up to the truth
of how far your reality
is from what you
dreamed it.

it’s like you’re frozen or
drowned and no
one gives a damn;
time turns his back and
walks on without you,
air presses down
on sloped shoulders as
if to bury the husk
remaining and the
mirror whispers
in laughter

“now you know
how I feel.”