Two diatoms

Sand stretches like the white belly of a waking cat

We are wrapped warmly, arm in arm, 

paper cranes sitting on the rising sun

The wind bears us, a seed in a white dove's beak

Island to island, to christen every breach of sun and sea

And celebrate every surrender to the gravity of night

In the inky ocean outside a plane's oval eyes

We might merely be two little diatoms

In the vast blue planktonic dance

But when we move together

the ocean bends and stars light our path

to our next adventure. . .arm in arm

We have been swimming

We have been swimming, 

 you and i

  in blue wonders 

   and feathery clouds

  each drop, 

 a radiant gasp,

a verdant 

 pinto sprout,

  shooting 

   through 

  the canopy

 knocking over 

                       howler 

                             monkeys

 carrying 

   a grinning sloth

   and a beautiful kinkajou

  (un-singed)

home. . . .

I would find xenon

You asked me once, what if we'd never met?

I would've felt nothing differently at first.

I was already hollow and tired

compressed into a little square,

the sad frosty breath of an elk

on an empty frozen lake

After a time, without even an idea of you

I would miss you. . . with no knowing

I would only long for something

Life should be funnier and warmer

and more adventurous

Kisses should have fire

and passion. . .

Adventure. . .

I would find xenon

and with it, I'd look. . . 

within the depths of my hollow days

I would look for signs of you

between the formulaic songs

among the endless noise

I pine for the slightest hint of you

in the darkness

of all that does not matter

It Burns

(written in light of the Ferguson riots)

It is 2am, and the world is on fire

The heart takes a breath

as the mind can only hold it

I lay exhausted, saying nothing

what is there for these

but their anger, their hunger

a season of burning colors

smoldering over a dead child

I miss you my darling

my heart yearns to breathe

and my mind is exhausted

i want to hold you and say nothing

Wolves Going to Picnic

I woke, and resisted the urge 

to really turn over to face the empty plains of our bed. 

Instead I imagined turning over. . 

to see the edges of your lashes, 

sweeping down towards your cheek, 

like foothills to a snowy plain.

A pack of silver wolves racing by,

padding softly through the snow.

They are wearing pointed hats,

and silk grey jackets:

they are going to picnic,

they are going to tea.

It is then, that my fingers brush your cheek,

sending the little wolves tumbling

with the soft clatter of tea cups

little white saucers, spinning.

A bit of spilt oolong 

(for that is what wolves drink)

soft and warm as my whispered

"good morning my love"

Hilarity Followed

I think perhaps it was the brisk weather last night. 

I dreamt of standing in front of Bronwyn, 

nervously waiting to meet the beautiful woman 

who also wanted to meet me!

Your playful eyes were sunlight and blue sky

draped with lamplight bangs

wrapped in the cool autumn air

I remember finally getting to kiss you

tenderly at first,

then quickly with wild wanting

We were famine and our lips the feast

The sweet devouring of our tongues

All the world fell away

as I got to kiss you the way I always meant to

and the hilarity that followed

One afternoon

One afternoon, we ran away from it all. . .

Projects spinning on their rims

Deadlines, cooling like crusty magma

We let it all go to voice mail.

Hand in hand, we ran, drove, flew

to where valleys envelope us,

like apple rinds coiled around the foothills

sweetly fragrant flames, rusting in the wind

The sunlight is our trumpet, bright as brass

big as the smiles we use to fill each other

great sails of light. . . our sun on a string

we face each other, and let all shadows

fall behind.