Author: admin

This is where I read the daily news,
over coffee. I don’t use a tablet.
I caress paper, trace the folds, the fiber,
compelled to feel the aches of trees
under my fingers.

It is the smoke that gives birth
To possibility.

I remember when my body was a friend
And now it fights me every step of the way

Hair turns gray,
face wrinkles,
coffin closes.

I will tell you this: take these stones,
the mortar that looks good enough to eat,
the trowel I had the foresight
to bring on a first descent.
Go to work.

As I listen to the wind
I hear it changing pitch
When this happens
I like to think of you

How blues hardened into rock.
How your hair dried in the sun.
How fault lines settled into your brow.

It is the movement
of the limbs—legato as they say in music
when the drumbeat softens to a brush
and the strings hum on one note

When she left me,
she took pieces of me with her.