endings

i’m forgetting

all the words of

my favourite songs.

i pray in silence

as i walk. i’m not

in any hurry.

there are fewer

conversations

between us now.

sometimes silence

makes it simpler;

though not easier.

everything requires

more effort from me.

i’m prepared to give.

i haven’t read

a good book

in a long time.

lately, there is

only poetry. and

not enough of it.

i want for beauty.

language that lifts

off the page.--

burnt offerings

that fill my belly,

turn me to ashes.

o, that i could

remember each word

that moves me.

but there’s no point.

i’d only remember

the arguments.

so here’s a flower.

i have nothing else left.

let that be the end of it.

perhaps

today i found a secret door

i did not open it

 

some things should remain hidden

but not all things

 

i wanted to whisper all my secrets

Into your ear

 

you kept turning your head

turning my secrets into kisses

 

or perhaps i turned our kisses

into secrets

 

or (perhaps) the door should remain closed

or (perhaps) i still want to open it

 

or (perhaps) i’m tired of secrets

or (perhaps) i’ve grown hard of hearing

 

i keep running into doors

and never through them

 

i have the bruises as witnesses

they speak to me at night

 

until all i can think of is your mouth

the way you say my name

river

that it was sunny

meant only that

it was sunny and

we went for a walk

 

we went walking

along the river

among the trees

in the coolness

 

covered in shade

beside the river

we stood in silence

 

touching hands

standing silent

as the sun sets

 

the river sounds

like rubbing hands

 

trying to warm

waiting is the hardest part

what does it mean to be

doing poets’ work?

and how do you know

when the work is done?

 

are there fan clubs?

will there be letters

with dried flowers,

perfumes, gift cards?

 

assuming only those moved

will put in the effort

to reach out, how safe

are these communications?

 

i want to tell you each poem

is the result of you listening

to the voice beneath the voice

nestling in your ear.

 

go ahead and buy the book.

you can tear out all the poems

you love, and all the one you hate.

fold them up and put them in your pockets.

 

then forget you put them there.

let them surprise you some morning

making new shapes, unbidden,

binding us together with secrets.

 

become so full of words

they spill onto the floor

until you are emptied of words

and able to be still.

House hunting

We all have lists

for what we require

of a home. What

we name it.

The signs we hang

in the front hallway.

What do you need.

How many rooms,

and why.

About the view.

The neighbours.

But the question

is less important

than the answer.

Are we surprised

when we find it.

Do we think we can.

Have we forgotten

what it feels like.

Who was there.

There have been

moments.

sprinkled like salt.

We find homes

beyond the walls.

We let the dead

bury the dead.

Foxes have dens.

Birds have nests.

Where will we

lay our head.

We don’t need

the two-car garage.

The finished

basement.

The bonus room.

Not really.

We need every

warm voice.

A corner for rest.

A table for meals.

The blessing

of song and laughter.

What is possible.

Perhaps even a dream.