In November

Joy touched down one evening,
unmade plans and unsure thoughts
bright smiles in blue

Each smile in a champagne bubble
floating to the top of a glass
bursting with glow

A reunion based in another time
the grooves had been pressed in before,
the beats already known

The Pacific air cut through those souls
dancing in each other’s shadows
drinking them in

Love in a vacuum still acts the same
heat under hearts and blankets
follow the tempo

What could have been, was,
no weight of expectation
a perfect vacuum

Songs hoisted out of lungs
to serenade one another all contained
ideal melodies

Songs and sunlight and melancholic operas
being savored by two explorers in a
tiny bed

These pure champagne-tinged moments
burst quickly, memories quaking with
pleasure and pain

Once the bottles were empty and
bubbles were gone,
the songs paused

The vacuum opened to a larger one
explorers parted ways to make new tales
for each other

All the Poems in the World

All the poems in the world
are about the empty
space in the bed

And all the operas
are about murder

End of nights and new moons
rip stillborn sadnesses fresh
without anesthesia

The operas describe
perfect afternoons

Middle of days and clouds
soften the night’s powers
comforting slowly

All the poems sit
in that empty bedspace.

Words and song notes
wander around through woods
on small islands

The singers’ volumes
heal eve’s injuries.

Spaces left empty, still warm
are misplaced recollections
of leftover energy.

Poets react equally to balance
wistful relief.

New Moon

All the women in the world
cried at the same time
one day

The moon looked on and
was bounced around from
tear to tear

All the men sat stunned
sincerely in awe of such powerful
echoes

This eternal sadness rang out
rivaling the weight of glaciers
and wind’s speeds

All the children gazed up
at their weeping mothers
in pure fear

Those who were built to comfort,
the women, gazed down and
still sobbed

This simultaneous howl
bewitched the planet
refracting light

All the women cried and time stopped
and the men and children feared
and the moon danced

Salted

The day my brother died
a monarch sat on my shoulder
in the park
for twenty
whole
minutes

Time is infinite and glowing
and we all belong
to each other
but monarchs and death
still don’t add up
to anything

Oh, it must have been him!
– She said
but I’m pretty sure
it was just a lost butterfly
tired and maybe dizzy
This isn’t their season

Then again, it wasn’t his season
to get poisoned by his own blood
and die in a room alone
in just
two
weeks

It’s much better
not to waste moments
thinking about
just
how
special they are