In Kind

None rest beside her now
her thoughts are to herself
As the moments blossom
she multiplies her choices

Crease

Her pillows and sheets
caress the truth of her need
I stand outside her door
and await my turn

The Far Reach

She nimbly navigates the current
a mistress of the moon and tides
the beach beckons
but she sails on

I Have Learned

I have learned that thought can betray
unless kept to one's self
where it is only good for dreams
and wistful yearning for repose

I have learned that the mind's eye is easily blinded
by the red heat of the heart
and that all the watering and blinking
does no more than create a film that blurs the truth

Passion Play

How do I keep the pleats in my skirt
in this summer wilt
dodging from shade to shade
all I find is an inconsistent shadow

I've received instruction on resuscitation
but it was always for the other guy
high school never had a class about what to do
when you were about to die

Before I die of the heat
I'll succumb to the heat of the moment
and my resurrection will be a testament
to the power of passion
and the myriad roles
in its never ending play

Chance

I've watched them waddle to their chariots
and create the dust of ages
labor's love is lost in their wake
but who need worry when redemption is for sale

In the cold dawning of materialism
when excess became the first poker chip
how was it a gamble for the dealer
when it was his first spin of the wheel
that broke the world

Past-Present

I've licked the edges all my life
and exist without regard
A stultifying exercise
devoid of flavor
but not without a lesson

Night Haiku II

I want the darkness
more than it wants me
it sends the dawn to bruise me awake

Touch

Tendrils reach forth
a gentle grasp soon to become
the vine's stranglehold

As I try to understand her pulse
my own heartbeat turns into a throb
warning her to flee

I've learned to live within that echo
of misplaced passion
I close my eyes and only suffer the memories

Posthumous

We slide into being
and grow into ourselves
We become an enigma
and hide our secrets
so they may die with us
A commonplace life
unworthy of elegy
Yet we expect to be remembered