words

I sleep with books under my pillow
words of God and man
paperbacks
novels journals volumes

sometimes they spill out in the night
tumbling down to the ground
splaying their laborious innards

and I think of what I've written there
nights when I can't sleep
or mornings clouded with dreams

how just last night
I read some poetry
and scrawled out all that was painful
all that was trivial

words that speak of loneliness

putting my own words under my head
and now I can't escape them
and I don't know where to find you

from the trees

look
there's little better
than pennsylvania in october
the edges of the leaves

i thought of that
singing
you thought i was getting emotional
setting off a chain reaction
tissues and tears
when really
it was just the coffee
and i hadn't warmed up

maybe towards the end
i was adding some beauty to the world
if even for a small instant
like the crevices
the changing edges of
autumnal leaves

maybe it was a small offering
penance for my unbelief
gratitude for life given
nothing more than i can give
although mostly
it seems like you ask much more
from the trees

when i'm home

meeting at our old haunts
i couldn't help but smile
making eye contact
(you've always had such blue eyes)
my heart started pumping at a dizzying rate
although i'd rather romanticize
what i wish we still had
even as you tell me about that other girl
i suspect
it has more to do with
the three cups of coffee
regardless
whatever my organs tell me
you feel like coming home

observations

walking past the
paint peeling on the porches
a daily decay

reading the headlines
on the paper left on the sidewalk
under the sheen of plastic
and droplets of rain

waiting for the light to change
a boy on the opposite corner
lights up
and starts strolling
straight through the don't walk sign
despite the surgeon general's warning
i like him
so bold
and so alive

candles

i'm already wishing to come back and sleep
to lose myself in my cousin's music
and eat some mints
to pound away at the piano
and to not be concerned with deadlines
to pretend like it's winter
when cocoa and mittens are the only consolation i need
a welcome disguise in layers of scarves
a day where the muscles in my back relax
and i don't feel guilty about calories
with plenty of time to read

instead i stay waiting
for a day i'd rather avoid
unable to see the grace and mystery
most likely just unwilling

maybe just a day where bad poetry goes unnoticed
and it doesn't matter if it's not perfect
if it's real