Flash on the Lightless Sea

some breaths, I think I can feel you sitting
in my living room, witless work of your fingers knotting frayed string from
the couch, while you read and swig good beer

Colors of Bodies Next to Us

though he brings the rain,
perfumed and pea coated,
you won't see the wizard.
I rub the hail into my eyes, make melting
diamonds of my pupils that you
might see the insanity that he is and you
ride the nothing train to drinks and laughter you'll soon forget, I just
don't get this, how
we spend our time

A Hundred Miles

it hits me like she's
drowning in someone else's body
that her mind, has twenty years of
sunsets by the window and Las Vegas benders while
her lungs petition for eight months of exhales, just
can't stretch at that pace
no more
and her wide eyes know it

I have a friend who says she
likes to be done with a place before she
leaves it,
this is not that, it is
walking St Paul to Savannah and dying
a hundred miles to the gulf
what can we do now

That Weight

we touch every curve of hwy 51
the spoke between the tube and the hub
hang our hands to the pavement as we careen
my voice deepens and hers becomes sharper
and we talk about things that happen in the space
to which others do not pay attention

forgetful are we toward the
caverns where we unearthed our voices
the tall grass that grows there like the curved
backs of old women
who have stored their stories in the soil
hoping for just a pair of wanderers
to go digging in the night life