1.
in summer
we sit in the branches

picking leaves
from the strands
of our hair
we break the stems
and touch
the bleeding tips
to our tongues

2.
quietly
the fruit falls

aging in the soft
shoulder of the ground

flies gather
eating life
before the ending day

3.
summer fails
gathers
and fails again

new grass
grows
crowded against
the wooden fence

my mother
kil...

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summer ages with
a sudden hour
thin and
sun-softened

words follow
like leaves
each their own
separate turning

my sister tells me
what i don't remember

morning softens
bleeding into
a new light

and she begins
again

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night in the long hours
quiet like the inside
of a suitcase

somewhere
a fire is burning

darkness moves
a breath against
the heavy wall
blind and
pillow soft

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it rained
sometime
in the passing night

leaves rustle
wet shadows taken
by a sudden current

sleep
follows me
like a footstep

morning curls
heavy in
the shadows
of the grass

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the lights move
yellow along
the curves
of your face

soft voices
wait
in the rising
fall of your chest

briefly our shoulders
touch

in sleep
your hand
flutters like
a dying bird

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there's a beauty in
her angled shoulders

between the shadows meeting
beneath the curve
of her breasts

unbroken hours
forgotten in
the narrow dark

silence moves
along the small
parts of her hands

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your hands in
the breathing quiet

darkness softens
grey into
the hidden corners

the new morning rises
pale and
soft bellied

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muted sunlight
grey against
the sleeping grass

voices falter
startled by
a new word

disappointed,
the rain bends
with a heavy breath

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morning fades
into early afternoon

you're asleep
in the next room
one hand folded over,
fingers touching
the inside
of your hidden palm

somewhere
a voice laughs
spilling life into
the restless sun

the flowers
that your mother gave me
wilting on the corner table

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small
rustle in the mid-hour

she moves
in steady comfort

bare shoulder to
restless sun

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he left again
in the early morning

sunlight touches
silver through
the heavy blinds

i clean the dishes from
the kitchen table

new shadows settle
restless bruises against
the curve of my hand

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summer grass folded
like faded paper
under the heavy frost

your cat sitting
at the window
watching the winter birds

cold water
brushes
the back of my hand

slowly like
a thought turning
it begins to rain

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an empty morning

your pillow
how you left it
curled under
on the edge

i remind myself
to think of you
in the new silence

the cat watching
with the small
movements
of a ghost

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together 
we move through
the tall pines

he tells me
of the bad days
his words reaching
through the light
of an early autumn

there is a need here
in the pale shadows

the new morning
rots like an open fruit

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morning begins
to soften
outside

i wait for you
cold hands
light gathering
with the dust
of the growing hours

there is nothing in me
that is not already soft
and brittle

feel the leaves slip
on the pavement
touching new words with
a covered breath

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he writes
of the sun shifting
through the narrow grass
the curve of her body
moving with the sound
of a sigh

a cold rain gathers
bringing night
to the waking room

the pale shadows
on the table
hold the movement
of his empty hand

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the windows open
to the sound of rain

i hear your voice echo
in the other room

morning begins
with a muted fire

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midnight buries
a half moon

below her
the sidewalk seems
to shimmer in
the dim light

voices meet
hand to
awkward hand

she hesitates
lingering to watch
the snow fall

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the smell of smoke drifts
from the burning mountains

your breath moving
the strands of my hair

new light touches
the corner 
of the bedside table
and tells me 
what i don't remember

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rain again tonight.
light scatters
on the  pavement
like glass

i remember
the broad
curve of the river
keeping time
with the windows
of the train

i watched you
watch the water pass,
one palm curled
around the shadow
of your wrist

i was waiting then, too

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the mountains
are growing
green again

i know the bend
of your hand now
daylight gathers
into a slow burn
and i am not ready
for sleep

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summer pulls
the curling
length 
of her hair

leaves whisper
with a blossomed
voice

tonight the moon
has a fingernail's
edge

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i miss the silence
of your empty
hand

you drive
your face breathing
a white
light into the dark

the snow
falling like ash
on the road

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summer
turns with
the aging leaves

she carries
her days
on the bend 
of her shoulder

the drifting
weight of the morning
curls with the smoke
of her cigarette

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winter
follows me
here

under
the creeping snow
shadows move
with the sound
of yellowed leaves

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sometimes
i remember you
in the restless hours
when the night follows
the waking quiet
and the summer
is too slow
to come

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early dawn
fades into grey

i carried your name
into the pale
winter morning

the sound
of the waking birds
touches skin
to skin

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the night falls
in silence

time
fades the
summer grass

and i count 
each
stepping breath
of your heart

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i keep
a light on
for you
quiet voices
follow
each nodding
turn
of an hour

the night
passes cold
between
the ache
of my fingers

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i can feel
the turn
of your season
fading

the dull
gathering
of the rain
gives weight
to the bend
of new leaves

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he eats an orange
every night
before going
to bed

early morning
fades into
the stagnant
ache of summer
he waits

the pitted reflection
of the kitchen window
parts like skin
along the edge
of his knife

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dull pink rises
over the growing
weight
of the houses

between
the quiet hours
the morning glories
close their petals
against the evening
rain

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there was an answer
in the way
the trees pass
pressing budding branches
against the silvering
pull of the sky

i think of the silence waiting
in an empty room
the light peeling
like skin as the day fades
spreading shadow and
the smell of dust
along the growing edges
of the carpet

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there is a red sun
setting in the mountains
i remembered your letter
on the kitchen table
unraveling the unsteady pulse
of your memory
into the half light

where are the early mornings?
the music playing
quietly as the pale
warmth of the ocean
passes like a mirror
beside the windows
of my car

we each keep sending
our own regrets

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we move in silence
the yellowing
age of the roses
continues with the tide

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the waves ebb and
turn like the shadows
hidden in the folds
of a curtain
there is morning somewhere
behind the fog

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morning again
my shoes
are still wet
from the rain
last night

i search
with small fingers
for the beginning
push of the light
the smell of oranges
still lingers on my pillow

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the dogwood trees
are blooming
their petals
tipped in the silver
of the morning
rain

i'm beginning to like
the quiet again
the shifting hands
of the clock
brushing hours
against my shoulder

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i found your footprints
by the lake
where the sand
met the lazy
tongue of the water

i wanted to tell you
about the oranges
on the counter
the soft curl
of their peels
growing dimmer
in the fading light

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i dreamed
of the ocean again
last night
silver lined
the water and 
the hanging
shadows of the gulls
the waves
curling like fingers
against the sand

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old leaves
follow
the curve
of the water
and now
that the rain
has ended
the trees bend
their branches,
heavy with the push
of the fading season,
towards the shadows growing
in the long
fingers of the grass

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the night outside
grows colder
he is sitting
listening to the shadows
move from room
to room

there are edges
along the corners
of the narrowing room
where the yellow
light of the lamp
does not touch

he is tracing
his memory
along the curve
of her wrist

outside
the snow falls
in separate time

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your fingers
shadowed on the grass
the soft
sound of the leaves
rushing
in a pass of breath
as it begins
to rain

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the window is open
to the sound
of the water
sighing

the light
from the waning
moon
speaks softly
to the corner table

you left
a glass by
the kitchen sink
pale pink tracing
the line
where your lips
had been

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the sky was a flat metal 
he could smell the dusky 
smell of a coat discarded, 
damp and full of dust, 
on a bench as he passed. 
and, even now, as 
the wind pulled the hands 
of his scarf around 
in frantic circles 
he thought of the quick flick 
of her hand as she tossed 
a cigarette, half-burned and 
orange with inward fire 
onto the sidewalk

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there's a silence
in the hours
of the first stirring
between the breaking
of light through
brittle air
and the pale stretch
of shadow

you traced your own line
where the light dips
and pools in the hollow
of my collarbone
with the narrow tip
of a finger
i take a page
pure in the first fold
and open receptive

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soft heels answer
on the sidewalk
i watch the lines
of her hips move
against the shadowed
fabric of her skirt
there's not enough
distance in the brittle
push of early autumn
it shifts the naked
rest of browning leaves
and loves no one

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she is beautiful
he tells
the shifting breath
of the open curtain

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the wind picked pace
she could feel the sound
of the music, very
distant now
he was telling her
about his sister
fingers sliding
through her hair
like water
saying, "You remind me,"
"You remind me."

it was too early
for spring
bare branches
stir with a sudden
turn of crooked fingers
as a car passes,
shedding light
on broken glass

last night she dreamed
of lions

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