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If Your World Was Our World

We would gravitate to gradation

sail across a calm canvas from green grey to pale pink,

hopscotch across your checkerboard of pastel shapes

accept asymmetry and ascend:

levitate towards one hundred half moons

loiter under a single velvet star.


We would tread on your lowlands of infinite dotted color,

sleep by the grainy sea hugging your Sacred Islands

surrender our egos in the chaos of clouds where you craft your angels

and set them free:

humble, simple, carefully discrete. 

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Somewhere or nowhere at all, 

you vanish into a vast arid vista.

Desert dunes swallow your form,

horizons authorize your exile.


Dirt cakes my face and clogs my calm

confusion stings my vacant eyes.

Vagabond, resist refuge.

Human, envision arrival.


Grounding, Part One

On land or mat weight rocks into heels in a hot bath with oil and salt skin ends and water begins at a breakfast café words wrestle in a corner driving in a car anywhere rural speed slows me down to earth my head is composing in the clouds cooking up a confidence to choose quantifiable messes a future and the elegance of freshness.


Grounding, Part Two

For fear we are built on paper sheet over sheet over sheet restricted to canvas with width height edges and silhouette but no certain depth what happens when paper rips in a flash of light and sensation I remember what I no longer have in unspoken places at the birthday party or dinner table seated with the presence of absence or the innocence of a child eager for freedom unready for responsibility satisfied by conversations with others letters to self and access to loved ones works of art and science and music the good kind of love.

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Independent or just free-spirited/ stubbornly unyielding and persuasive/ unafraid of her emotions/ dressed in black/ danced to any song/ a sharp visual memory (of people, particularly artists, often as vivid snapshots)/ a sense of delighted amusement with life/ sentimental (mental)/ guilty of falling into the habit of taking deliberate separation from love/ conscious of the subtle, far-reaching consequences of growing up female/ powerfully female/



Coated in nebulous white

winter snow showers and chills of loss,

lasting shivers of your absence.

Seasons steal forward

memory stretches back

before changing winds of worry,

beyond days of invincible decline.

Home in sleepy hollow

echoes of your presence ring peaceful.

Strangely, I am warm missing you. 


Nice, France

Tobacco dust collects in the cradle of delicate paper

sealed with a lick, kiss my lips

taste my mouth, hold my breath

On the terrace touching a tender sea 

time shrinks and shadows split

Sure of our youth we whisper into mismatched mugs

truth like tea too hot to drink

We wait wrapped in lavender moonlight

until a bruised sky breaks dawn

Translucence clouds, light patches thicken

The cigarette succumbs to ash.



Once you confessed

now you swallow silence

in summer light

lick old wounds

seasons can't heal. 

Last anniversary

you gave her gold earrings

she gave you a look to say,

these are fake too.

The backyard hammock sways

secrets unearthed, I surrender to sleep

impossibly home with you here. 



Blind man sleeps to see

night from nightmare.

Light seeps into black palette:

on the flipside of visceral vision

bright flashes flare

where white stars scratch shade. 

Stranger in eclipse,

stumble into moonshine:

too drunk to drink

too damned to dance.

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Loving Laura

After a brisk walk from east to west,

I enter your fantasy on freestanding canvas

dance into doodles

sample varying moods light with frivol

bees in beehives, monkeys on murals,

mostly perspectival play.

Simultaneously a part and a whole,

a single in a series

I am a friend in your game of ambitious abstraction.

Humbled by scale and tender color

I leave knowing you.