Unwelcome

If it makes it past my heart

I’ll kill it with my hands

There’s an echo in the mountains

When the body lands

Moons and Oceans

Not a person

But a planet full

Vast in its purple oceans

And many in its moons

Dragging me into your orbit

And drowning me in your

Violet waves

Nightmares

My nightmares

are my own;

unfelt and unseen

yet the tremors

are heard in the morn,

dull echoes

hidden in sharp alarms,

falling to sleep

waking to rise

life to day

death to night,

ending its story

as we all do

in our fatal haste to new

Wrecked

Sometimes,

I remember that

the radio continues to play

as a car wrecks,

and I think that’s

how we often live –

ravaged by pain,

aware of our destruction,

and, yet,

humming along.

VD 1/4

You are a snow day,

a game-saving buzzer shot,

the first sip of coffee,

and the last page

of my favorite book,

when good defeats evil

and love wins.

Unity

I think our trouble

with “unifying”

is that we glorify

a beautiful, abstract

unity,

but never —

never —

choose unity

above

sharing each and every

fleeting condemnation

that occurs to us,

and thereby

keep unity

from ever

becoming.

Staying

She pulls me

gently

down a well-worn path,

littered with ferns and old letters,

and brings me to

a flowery clearing.

“This is always where they leave,”

she says,

indicating the barren field.

“Yes,” I say,

“this is it.”

“This is what?”

“This is a perfect place

to build a home.”

Poetry

Poetry is for the living,

but death

is what grants it meaning,

making time so fleeting

and love so precious

that even poetry

can scarcely

touch it.