The Witching Hour

blue
where the moon greets
the fading day
there's something thick
in the air
like pea soup
and its swirling towards me
down the street
and taking up residence
beneath my feet
and now I have forgotten
the way back home.

The Orient of Flight

Somewhere across the sea

The sun is rising in the east

The man without any eyes

Sees the heat

Somewhere, in the upstairs

Rattling in caged defeat

Wings flutter from a window

Cracked purposefully

Across the Horizon

across the horizon

of a familiar, dieing sky

The sun bleeds

A deep red wound

into the trembling earth

Sunken underneath

a rotting tree

I breathe

with urgency,

then exhale into the wind

growing thick and heavy

My thoughts of you

wrapped around me

Catch flight ascending

Into the decadent air

with no remorse

And I, with eyes

dilated and dry

am waiting for the dark

because I can not remember light

before the artificial

A Sparrow

In an instant you dissolved

into the dawn.

I reached my fingers

into the light from the sun

            reflecting off the white snow. 

This is when I

Know.  Looking at you was like watching

the telephone poles whiz past the car window. 

Touching you was like falling

into snow angels.  

Every second with you was a bird waiting

            for the cage door to open.

Now

gray, they air between  

your breath and mine, grows stale with

my cough and your stagnancy,

            it dies inside the wind, floating away.

Walking down the alley

behind Subway, feathers

strewn across the ground

a decapitated sparrow.

Mostly

mostly we are space
hollow and quiet.
When you look at me
that way
I feel
I can put
my finger
right through you.

Amending my pen with the Ink

Design
my insecurities
when I allow
my hands to think

What Adam Duritz says to me while I lie awake in my bed

We all
want
something
beautiful