Thursday, May 9, 2013

Stammer

His warmth
is a lit match
grazing close.

I recoil
like the tiny wisps
on the tip of a cotton wick —

afraid to be ignited and

keeling over
from the memory 
of splendor —

trying so hard to fight it.






Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Heaps

I’m floating on saltwater
my hands the weakest oars
splintered with stinging words
sickened by the steady tumble
light swish and heavy drop
my stomach clenched tight
I look up high but
clouds loom each night
and shroud the North Star.

"Don’t stop now!"
they tell me.
"You've come so far."