Moving Parts.

If days turned
as pages do,
perhaps I could find
a lesson
in each fleeting,
flaming moment.

This life is flying
and whipping,
like an eager bird
staggering
in the tumult.

I want to beg
for a time to
lay flat,
a time to tempt
all of the deepest things
to curl quietly
over me,
a time to taste
our air
and smell this
skin
of mine.

This is just
what I am granted,
though:
time, time,
days and moments,
air and flesh.
And it shouldn't
be quite so
tricky
to use my
hands to try,
try and catch this
life-
just some
delighted child
chasing after
magical,
moving parts.

Wormwood.

The cups were clean and copper,
and Mars hung over our heads
as we,
a family in so many senses,
melted sugar and
spoke of dead men
who had once hiked
our mountains.

Then, our chests opened
and we fingered
the spines of
books prized and
dusty.
The green fairies
did their dances
in our smoke rings
and we laughed.

The house was one
of a thousand
tiny memories,
and our talk was
plumb and true.

He forced the pen back
into my hand,
and I kissed her goodnight,
and we stumbled
home
as the sun gently
scowled in
the East.

And so
the words,
strung like brilliant,
dead pearls between
us,
had arced from
one end of our
horizon
to the other.