A Fugue State

Devastatingly lethargic.
Sleeping fog, a film of dust.

The tension of water holding up
an old dream. A familiar dream-

the one about a father who
poisoned his daughter.

He couldn't love her even
if she loved. A little.

Beautifully vague- how she
learned to leave the world as

lonely as she found it.


We Do What Is Expected

The child was taken care of,
dinner made. Why does the
snowman in the yard
stand so still? The dead

won't cry at midnight
even if they could.

That one single bird, so
feathered, so wild sings
to absent ears because it must.

It must.


Retro Walk

Later, we should return
to what we were

erasing pity or grief;

follow our footsteps back
without a body, without

disfiguring the past.

I wonder if the world
will recognize who
we are or believe

we belonged here
in the first place.


Blessed Are the Obvious

Covered from head
to toe, the tribal mindset
of removing the face
from its body or rage
from love, defines sanctum-

a place reserved for darkness.

See the perfect likeness
of the cypress, the mirrored
wings of hawks and owl,
the indistinguishable river
of rushing waters.

Here, the shapeless form
assumes distinction only by
its deepest flaw.


The Missing Link

The lessons began that first evening
before damage was understood or brightness
peeled from its dark husk revealed nobility.

When did wing become flame
burning itself mid-flight?

What sign stands for sacrifice
and who will give it freely?

Then prayer, learned or gift
drove the child from Eden out
into the thoughtful night.