there is a flag in my house and a farmer i pay

we placed the coins in the cracked hand of the tall farmer

his wife in plaid glowing round and ruddy beside him

and we sang to ourselves

different tunes

marching proudly home with our christmas pears

tinder

there must be singing and those tiny colored flags

we must string the triangles from window to window and through all the trees

red blue yellow orange blue hope

we must light up every delicate sparkling little woven piece of ice

keep alive keep alive keep holding

watching you go

there is no tree falling alone in a forest, or new york sidewalk full of strangers, or back road leading into back road

that is lonely enough to resemble the feeling of being forgotten by a loved one.

 

 

 

dead bird

the fisher

when the house is mine, i let the stereo off her leash.

the weather of memories and the conspiracy of color

it is snowing in every memory i have of you

and you are always wearing that stupid blue shirt

toe the line

the white and black will battle

in the grey matter

 

 

 

 

reason filter

every year there are far fewer monsters in retrospect… and far more humans

youth

i knocked

and you made a hollow sound

but we were young then

and our insides weren’t on our insides at all

but on our sleeves

 

 

 

in green

oh darling

the forest has eaten my running legs and my fighting arms

i am all heart now

and for the taking