The thoughts I had about love are the thoughts I have with you

I realized today that I don't even care about the rest,
the immoderate contempts I used to hold so close
the need to guard myself from attack of memories,
both new and old,
is faded and gone.
When the snow fell again this morning,
the second coat somehow looked even better covering up the footprints
from the day before
and the day before that.

The End

She told me that she hated me,
threw my shirt down the stairwell and
screamed, moaned, all the while taking the same short-rapid breaths
for more air, just how she used to in bed when her hair would fall over my eyes.
The phone fell and as I reached her hand - our last kiss was narrated
by a dial tone.

The Flash of a Despondent Domestic

A frozen blossom
fell into my open hand,
it shattered in two.

I picked up a piece,
examining it closely
under a flat, dull sky.

It brought you to mind,
that one day under the train
when we were younger.

You just shook your head
when all I really wanted
was your open hand.

Found Philosophy

How do you respond?
He could remark that his death was a resurrection,
an interesting philosopher that should know how to live.
One terms without asking a human mourning affords posthumous gifts.
The work of thinkers taught me significance in their precondition, the predestination of a voice.
October in enslavement, offered to me freely,
not to be a link but strictly moments.
Moments as demands.
"I am," he says,
because he is,
because it is.
Reputation changed, he admitted his rules were art, signs to no particular intentions.
He missed the response of an apartheid opposition, his terror undermined death.
In another life is a thought, "How do you respond to your life and your name?"
The meaningless task of what a life makes on us with enjoyable beginnings.

A dumb goodbye haiku

There isn't much time
so we will shake our two hands
and be on our way.

A dumb love haiku

The whole universe
holds many, many bodies
but only one single sun.

Invention

Your arm moves across the bench, your fingers slip through my own a tapestry of icy skin, meeting pelagic eyes. Yours, the deep blue of an Atlantic reflect my Mediterranean splash.

A still prayer escapes your lips, head bowed. It flies through the air with precision, my ears receptive to your elder tongue. Minerva, sitting on this shoreline, musical poetry pulsing through thought. I can barely see, lean closer, lost in my thoughts, a moment. So many. My own unknown potential finally found in the high tides of your eyes.

At last, relief.

Watching her walk across the unkempt grass,
her right hand holding the wicker basket,
her left hand clearing the stray hairs from her eyes.
The tall grass attempts to to stick against her glowing skin
but can not get through the soft cotton skirt.
The plants grow wild the further she walks,
swallowing the path,
leaving her memory as her only guide.
Her skirt stained but her feet tracing the imprints left in the dried clay,
those imprints from the day the sky opened up.
Where she
hidden beneath a yellow barn,
her hands clapsed over a mouth,
prayers escaped her gently parted lips winding their way past the gripping fingers.
She watched that day as the ground grew to meet her knees,
her skirt flowing in the current.
Crying out at the falling sky,
that day she forgot more then just the words of a past life.