for Heather

It took me
the entirety of my youth
to realize
that
those who have been
the greatest founts
of soothing comfort
in my life—
those who have
hopelessly
opposed
the hurricanes
of my griefs—
were,
themelves,
storms that had been
lovingly
quelled,

and

I have learned
that
a saint is just a sinner
that
sincerely tries again
each
day,

and

I have found
that
a heartbreak is a terrible thing
to waste,

and

my life has illustrated
that
the person most robed
in compassion
is
usually
covering
the most
grisly
scars.

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why it could never work

I think that
there are
two kinds
of people
in this world:

the kind that
let their
body weight
pull them into
the water
into which
they slip,

and

the kind
whose
long
and
spidery
toes
_c
__u
_l_r
around
the cement
lip
and push down
the earth
before they
sh.a
t.t.e
r
the water’s
surface.

I’ve always
pretended
to be the
latter,
but really
I’m
not.

I am
the leaf
that spins
as it falls

and

you

are a
cliff-diving
sunset.

“Always remember: There is magic in the elbows.”

(I wonder whether
there has ever
been
a painter
who painted
a suicide note
on the afternoon
sky.)

On his
red palette
an open vein
lingers
and
mingles
with his
sunset
brush
as it dances
between his
fingers.

(I again
fill my pen
with
red ink.)

There’s music
for this,
but he can’t
get it down
as fast as
he hears it.

Here is
the jewel
of his
legacy:

“Always remember:

There is magic
in the elbows.”

(Effervescent
crackling
spearmint
(ey)(es)
inhale.)

The sea
stirs
like
a great
gray
blanket
burying
the
plastic purple moon
as a
monotonous
train whistle
cries out
and
slides away
into the
unending
silence.

les violettes

Today,
there was this
quiet depression
budding
in me
as
the sun
scorched all
to
cynicism,

and,

amid that light,
I felt
conspicuous
by my
unfurling
darkness,
which
(whom)
burned
brighter,
silently
swirling
within me.

(Do you think
that
roses
know much
about
losing love?)

Tonight
I learned
that
the moon
blooms
like us,
les violettes,
whose
desperate fires
pirouette,
inwardly burning
under
all
empty
skies.

Everywhere

I swear

I
am not
counting
our days
apart;

“Where are you
going,”
she asked.

I held my
hand
up
and looked for
tremors:

Nothing.

She crossed
her arms
under
her breasts.

“Everywhere.”

“I’ve never been there
before,”
she said.

“I know,”
I
said.

I swear

I
am not
counting
our days
apart

and how they

s
t
a
c
k

u
p

and

proliferate.