more suddenly winter

suddenly
the recollecting, the writing
of remembrance and hindsight
of the ideals
of hope
or longing for love life-long
have no merit
when knees weak
from a kiss on the neck
has her a flutter

flutter flutter flutter-by bye
blackbird

more suddenly
winter is not cold

nearing nine years

Nearing nine years,
there are days when the tears
are not for missing you
but for the realization
of my failure
in thinking of you
for even a single day.

if not for the sun-bright

lowdownbreakdown-
a funk of which seems
and yet is
not nine non nuf nill

it’s the cold

I hate winter hours when
I am not cocooned
wrapped in the fire of flesh

if not for the sun-bright
I would wither

of that I was unsure

I dreamt last night
you said I love you, soft
of that I was unsure
and came awake knowing
it was wrong, that
I don’t know you at all

I walk about

Bookshelves under the bar;
in the living room near the kitchen;
in the hall to the tiny study
which contains a legal width,
four foot tall WWII file cabinet
that smells of musk and old paper
in drab, drab olive green, a
desk, a printer credenza;
in the too slim hall to the bedroom;
in the bedroom opposite the foot
of the bed -
the bedroom where
dresser, side tables and storage bin
are to be found.

I walk about with bruised
shins, knees, thighs
murmer to myself.

Where are you?
My home feels empty.

in the garden fertile

It didn’t come on
sudden
I’ve watched it
like a lizard on the ledge
in the sun
admitted to
movement below catching
my gaze half-lidded.

I’ve watched it
growing
in the garden fertile

Drawn by the warmth
and the space
it consumes
a’feared to approach
but the burn may be more stronger
than a little lizard
can coolly
walk on by.