So how would you feel if

passing history impossibly frozen,demanding out-of-date thoughts.You left your footprints on my lifeI hate it when people talk of you:as if they were asking for my bloodto warm their own false memories.You left your footprints through my lifeI hate it when I find a letter from you:I read a richness and a loss in themand am…

that in the passing momentthe cold perfection of that plumreflected my perfectionreflecting all perfectionand the beauty of that momentwas but my own beautywhich must be, is, the beauty of the Oneso I hope the remainderwere as perfect, beautifulfor youso why notwrite a poem about this?

You are the fallI am the fall guyYou are regretYou are humilityYou come before

generous with their invitations;we, happy to partake of their lavish lifestyle,their buffet food, their wine, their décor…for which, we paid in a grubby coinage:from cocktails to liqueurs,the captive audience for their literate, spotlight centered abuseof one another.. the complicity of it allmade my fresh underwear feel dirty..outside, after, in the street,the rain came down;how sweet…

its banishment; its tearing awayfrom its home, its reed-bed. Andthis alone, tears at the yearning heartof all those whose heart feels far from home.Listen to it.Then behind its breathy airis fire – the fire of love; that soundwhich tells every love-story in the world,of lovers, parted, yearning to betogether once more. This flute firsttells of…

you can’t always remember whatwhat you always say is