between tides

night on the coast
suspended in the hush
between tides,
the moon is distant,
and hovers above
the still water.
I dissolve into the hush
and imagine
what waits beneath
the surface.
the water, salty and thick,
is filling the hollows
where memory is
and the air stands still
only inches above.
even in dim coves,
in the corners,
among the seaweed,
shells and stones,
in the silent night,
the patient, untouched
air waits.

dawn’s breath

A shadow circles above,
patient,
like a memory
that refuses to fade.
It moves across the raw skin
of morning,
giving way to dust,
unraveling, and dissolving
into dawn’s breath.
The day collects the remnants.
I fade into the half-light,
without a distinct shape.
I wait for the earth
to call me home,
but sleep arrives
first, thick and complete.

tell me things

in

in dreams, my body
tells me things

i study you
my
my body feels so inadequate

so very
loved, yet
still so inadequate for this

in dreams
my body tells me things

my body tells
me in dreams
of things

my body is always primal

body

to hide pain or joy
or even joyful pain
or pleasure

body
tell me things
things

told to me
by my body

only a lilac tree

buds curl inward;

last year’s blossoms

fold in on themselves,

becoming memories.

only a

lilac tree could hold these lessons

with

such bold defiance.

blossoms

so close to blooming,

and last

year’s buds are only memories now

the plum

i have misunderstood

the plum

something so simple

something often overlooked

we feed each other slices

of sweet

ripe fruit

collecting the juice

with our tongues

and sucking out the flavor

from our lips

we taste both the fruit

and each other’s skin

this is our language

words don’t work for us

it feels primal

it feels perfect

this is all we want

sticky fingers and lips

and the pit we leave behind

colors

rainwater pools
on
the field
reflect
the sky
and the setting sun
they glow with color;
from
one surface to another
crimson fading into violet
and then night falls.

birdsong

i began to wonder
about the melody
you sang
then
the bird became
quiet

ink

i dreamed last night.

i couldn’t find my pen.

wait, that’s not quite right.

i didn’t really lose it.

it was just hiding from me.

that’s different.

i couldn’t write anything.

my fingers felt tangled.

and without it,

nothing made sense

at all.

maybe this sounds confusing.

but it isn’t.

in my dream, i woke up

and saw the pen

was in my bed, and it had burst

now i was covered

in thick ink

that flowed over my body

and eventually into my mouth.

when i tried to speak,

i gurgled

and jumbled

and tangled thoughts

spilled out of my mouth.

time

This is time.
Cedar shingles
tell the story of seasons,
weathered and gray.
an unasked question.
a hint of passion
left unresolved.
Time heals
in scattered pieces.
Small fragments
of a face
once kissed and
now forgotten.
Time is a name,
one called out
in a dream
and unanswered in
waking life.
This is time.
a boy full of innocence
becoming a man
far too soon,
holding steady,
offering shelter,
holding words.
Time hasn’t moved,
only the distance
from my fingertips
to yours,
from my mouth
to your body.
This is time.
a face
aged by life,
wrinkled and worn,
with eyes
that burn with
fearful intensity.
a gift given by time,
Only by time.

unseen

you are gone,

time cannot hold on to what it once held.

you’ve seen this before,

somewhere

we were together here,

just like lovers are,

unseen by anyone.

you drift away,

lost in dreams.

gone

but time still brings you back.

lovers remain in time,

in dreams.

memories still kept close.

you and i,

lovers kept in time.