Tuesday, June 17, 2008


I would let go
but for the colour.

I like to sneak to the edge
and dig my fingernails into stone
and ponder
the relief of falling
the ecstasy in shattering bones, the
liberation of seeping blood. but

when I crawl back
it is for the shade
of your tears.

a ciphered breeze radiates
chilled fingers to
flicker over my skin and
keep sleep a dream.under the old quilt I imagine
you, I
crawl inside your likeness
and rebut today's rain,
the maple's goosebumped branches,
my pale hands.
reject robins ravening of
drunken worms, to

deny me, to
construct another.

a poet's epilogue

will it matter that I knew you?

that I notice light spinning
off maple keys
thrown from their canopy
to die under bicycle tires
pushed by gangly boys?

will I place my heart more carefully
after I watch leaves painting
small strokes of sunlight
freed from purple skies
and indolent raindrops?

did the words have meaning
when the waves wiped sand
from my feet
and left smooth stones
for my fingers?

and in the end
will I matter?