Just

Remind me to love, Lord
One ear up to all the world

One myopic eye
Just one
To all that ails me

Give me You
A curiosity-cocked mind
To learn just what is their need

Light to shine, that all feel seen
Many comforts and time to share

Just Like Yesterday

Were I to wear cowgirl boots on New Year’s Eve’
Would they walk me to your shine?

Were you to spin 70’s tunes on your record player
Would your dancin’ feet meet mine?

What did you wish for on your birthday without me
A shared path for us to find?

What I begged of the Ghost of Christmas Past
A machine to turn back time….

How Dare You Quote Whitman

Sonny, (I can call you that because I’ve grey and am much older than you)

You don’t look like a man who’dve (proper grammar? I surely don’t care)

Said what you said (but you said it, and it stole my heart)

In Chapter 25 (chapter twenty-five., to be precise)

Or even a man who’dve been able to “focus” this long (though you lay claim to seeing its virtue, so I’ll believe you)

Given the amount of time (I’ve spent more than my fair share of it and secretly believe it’s ubiquitous)

And number of exhalations I know (I know) it took away

From your habitual daydreaming (I’ve a penchant for it, too)

I could (sadly, I will) continue sharing unrequited love-jabs here

But it’s late and the (glorious, but damned) mosquitoes have made their entrance

So I laugh (always — most often at myself), and tuck your bookmark (thanks) in my bra strap (ha) instead of your book (your book, bravo) and go inside for the night (and, how dare you quote Whitman?!)

Goodnight (goodnight)

I’m Sorry

I am not a mechanism, a tool
Some structure
By which, if you employ, you may use to heal old wounds

Nor are you for me
These scars have nothing to do with you
You may not attend to them

While I hunger
While you hunger
We are not consumables

We are afire
We are to touch and be touched
While considering what time has in mind

525600 Minutes Too Many

“Be done leaving,” I’ve begged Time

Stop the silence

525600 minutes, almost now

Only just this morning
Done biding for unspoken goodbyes
I threw the clock out the door

Glass heart that it has
It’ll not show it’s square-jawed face
’round my gold again

Into Saturday Night

I awakened him with a soft exhale
One that was on purpose

Long

The timing of which had nothing to do with anything
Except fate and skin and the sixth-sense that is subconsciousness

And though this was his Sunday
That blessed day of rest
Seemed unnecessary, he said

As we sank back
Into Saturday night

Feverish

Re: Incarnate

Memo to self:

When the sun goes down on all he said
I ask why
The battering continues

That the night, without reason
Brings more questions than respite
Is the very reason
I forsake
The bruises and words of him
This, our second time around