As if on Some Small Child's Dare

An errant animate amalgam of two sentiences

of summer sunlight serendipitously slipped into

the early January air as if on some small child’s dare.

Everything went tolerably well. Though winter, they

decided, wasn’t where they would prefer to dwell.

Winter, not to put too fine a point on it, was hell.











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Be My Witness

Be my witness,

dearest thing.

Corroborate the sting

of my existence. Sing

my adamantine

heart’s persistence.

Don’t go.

Let someone know.










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A Holy Rabid Loneliness

We mightn’t have embarked

upon that strange excursion

into Soul our friendship is

had we not separately undergone

the stirrings of a holy rabid

loneliness: a darkness far

exceeding night – the building

toward a crippling secret fright

felt well before we knew

there could be solace for it

in the meeting of two pairs

of eyes. But here we are,

far past surmise, my friend:  

despite our knowing, though

we dare not wonder to each

other when, the thing will end.

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Nor Try to Wake Too Soon

In the limitlessness

of these rich unending winter

nights alights the spirit

of the human mystery –

that our obliquely sired history

is made of layered dark.

Park closely to the curb of sleep

and creep as deeply as you can

into the heart of its enumerating

secrecies, my dear –

and do not fear you will not

wake nor try to wake too soon.

Break from all the splinters

of December noon –

and take up Winter’s moon.









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Fling the Thing

Co-create some agony

and ecstasy today.

Flex and dance

around the miracle

then fling the thing away.













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