Hunting Streetlamps in the Moonlight

a figure crumpled in a pile in the rain
wrapped in a blanket
he is at home in the lightning
and there has been drought
so he weeps and smiles,
weeping in his homecoming

she is the crazy one
the runner
the barefoot lunatic
racing across new fallen snow
hacking down the streetlamps
once the moon is right

The Storming

i swing my arms back
as if to bow
a controlled collapse
for a chorus i can't resist

my hair is made
and lifted
and ripples in the wind

a pulse a push and its done
ride the cliff
to a mighty ruckus in the waves
an ocean screaming and cheering

return, return

From the Fence

there stands a wooden fence at the edge of conventional thought.
on this fence are carvings,
literature of pocket knives borne by those wandering near the abyss.