squinting at the
clock in the kitchen as it winds slowly
toward the end of an hour or an epoch,
i sit at my window, look away:
at the ground below bogged down
in indecision, up brooding at gray skies,
out at the flowers i planted
with so much care, coaxed in
by another season, another lifetime;
now they too are grown
wild and inaesthetic, incomprehensible.
isn’t this always how it ends?


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.”


yesterday is burning.

not cleanly, but like an oil fire with
lots of dark smoke and haze;
it’s not clear anymore what
lies on the other side.

i should try and save
what i can, i suppose,
sort through mouldering triumphs
before all is ash, but

the acridness singes the hairs inside my nose,
makes me want to squint my eyes and duck my head,

forget it ever happened.