Cottage
Mom and Dad were fucking
or fighting. Was there a difference,
do you recall? We were drowning
and called it childhood to quell
our fears of the falling sky.
What they called love leaked
from their August window while
we captured fireflys in jars,
suffocating their green light,
shaking out a final spark, luciferase-,
the staccato tap-tap-tap
of the last of all luminescence
against the tin tops of mason jars.
poetry
in 2005, a little tiny book of poems fell out. it’s called: Auguries. here are some of the feathers therein. for more, please contact the birdman.
SMOKE
Two summers before you died,
curled back then upon you,
those blue fingers,
those ghost tendrils,
the creeping roots of our
inevitable dismay,
every one of your
successive
cigarettes
i would mirror
with another of mine.
Cribbage we played, game
into game into game,
fifteen-two to you,
we scrabbled, too
away
some long afternoons.
Seven letters alone,
such is the game,
only serve to disserve you,
seven letters
and the air is too clear, now
longing of fingers, yours
or the wild blue whispers of smoke,
yours, on my hand,
elegant and gone.