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My loveYour heart is always a traveller;Sometimes by choiceOn the hard pavementThe muddy trackThe soft-piled leaves where no foot has treadThe clean slate tiles in my kitchenWherever you stepLeaves sprout upTiny beasts leap and followAnd all around you grows a homeYour heart is always a traveller,My loveTravel on

No entry no parking absolutely notYou’ll get no square deals hereWe’re not in the business of square dealsWe’re in the business of triangular dealsRhomboid deals leaning to one side Circular deals that never startNever endNever make a sharp turnYou think it’s all straightClean and predictable Then find yourselfBack where you startedAnd now maybe you understandWhy…

I wish you missed me she saidAnd I don’t know what to sayLike of course there would be a gapA gaping emptiness yawning where youShoneBut the thing isI’m just made of holesAnd absencesAnd I can’t look too deeply at any of themBecause every one of themLooks backAnd shows me all the abyssal ruinsI’ve left behind…

It’s been a minuteHe left almost a week agoAnd there’s been nothingIn the papersSome textMessagesCurt, instructive, transitory An aurora of significanceShimmering unformed and goneAlmost a week agoWill the patio now remind me of him?Cold not quite bitter concreteCracked sunshine and pinup girlMexican restaurantEvery time I see her smile I’ll think of himPerhaps every smile is…

The ravenous lack of love in the worldThe desolation of itEvery time the bandage is pulled offI screamTo see it uncovered againEven only for a secondThe unhealed, never healedWound that gapesThat scorns all sense and reasonThat grinds every care andTendernessInto sandSo that all I can doIs build castlesAnd ignore the tide

I threw out all the screenplaysPoems novels everythingUntil I’d shed enough ballastOf blameAnd stopped sinkingBut by then they were gone No gaps in the shelvesNo boxes straining with memoriesI don’t need to rememberMy dreams my hopes my futuresThey’re the phone calls my mother never answersLike she says,“If it’s important they’ll call back.”

Your inward breathYour heartbeatYour slow exhaleAre all expressionsAs beautiful as any flower, or sunset, or sculpture

Unburned wood in the firepitThis is meHalf ashes, half too green to burnJust waiting for air and sun and timeTo dry out the unburned self until I can receiveThe spark

Just maybe I’m up for putting words together or something. I don’t know.