More than an emotion of staleness,
ghost flashing a theremin tune until sun up,

contemplate the run growing with the ruin.
We watch all hands and spirits tearing

at bleached loam to lay a line more eternal,
etched not with any name, bury dreams under

sand and metal, searching space better forgotten–
Won’t wake him come morning, just wait

through orange glow, listen to his chest caving,
our names falling apart, crumbling, never

changing until landslides rupture foundations
we built upon, same lonely blue… I don’t think

of you as a collage of moments, only as a fragile
illusion full of allure, gentle Gaillardia, trail heads

with possibilities–Birch and greens to crawl
through, hidden shadow to rest in, with arms

longer than the distance between lake shores,
the kind of hands that could never just be a caring

friend. I could assure my flare is all flash
but singed fingers give up my intention, already

searing through: ashen paths we take, mine dusted
with blue, prints carefully crossing sideways.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s