What is this.

I don't care if

the rest of the world

can't see it

in you.

I do. And I ignite

up the light and carry it

across waters and

across maps on which

I am standing. I am

standing on the map

for another temporary

time but I actually

am not some fancy

moment of wish, some

thought only half articulated;

I spoke in full conversations

and melting the fortifications,

I tasted what it is to be that word

that we are all seeking.

I am sticking

and shuffling;

I am more than the

passing and fading

light upon the water.

I am the lighthouse

a moment;

the lighthouse from which there

emminates a droning drowning

sound that keeps the world from sleep

and from passing without notice.

The beacon brings

us back to our preferred

reality.

I present you all that

belongs to you. That which

Is you.

Only exaggerating parts of

you; you are it all.

And without the allusion

of material,

I am you.

The leaves begin to

shift to shades

of yellow.

Minds yet are determined

to keep their pace.

Breathe

Inventive in our own way

we are intent on producing

some small proof

of our success.

We may never attain

what we had hoped to.

Who stands before me?

Below the windmill,

there sits the shadow

of the person

you once were.

The shafts spin rhythmically,

as they have done

for hundreds of years.

The field is empty. Our

stomaches are empty.

Breathe to take in

some substance to

fill the spaces.

Skin

Take a new place in with

new time. We could be

anywhere with

anyone, but you

chose to be

here.

Or there. And

there is so far

away from my

here.

Begin to shed the

skin that came in layers

and slowly unravels

cell by cell,

color sometimes lost

and left behind.

I should have taken

our picture, I should

have recorded it so

that we could remember.

I don't know how

I could possibly forget.

How we could walk

away like it is fall

and we are leaves on trees.

I will fall head first

into the ground.

Where are you?

I Spoke Your Name

I see your essence in the

collections of photographs.

Timing is unconsequential

when it comes down to

daily survival- and

multiple attractions.

Among the clutters we may

find gold.

Things We Might Dismantle

The raindrops in the foreground

often block out the background.

It rained that night, and in the

morning the gravel was wet.

I walked barefoot anyway

to the car I hadn't driven

in a month.

They came from nowhere

and while I curled into

a ball in my bed

I could not hold it anymore.

What weighty burdens

we often bear.

I could write you in the evening

after dusk brought color and then

final darkness to my night.

Or in the afternoon on my parents

painted porch, on the swing that

doesn't sit perfectly strainght.

What conditional sacrafices we have

deterined for ourselves.

Great waves of the dismal ends,

the infinite universe.

Is it me, or who you think I am?

How many times we build up

and up, towards our skies.

Can we sit on your couch and laugh

about how inconsistant we find

our lives?

You cannot come to sit with me

though I will save a seat for you anyway.