hang on my fingers
like laundry
they stop short like an
admission of guilt
even metaphors are
bland like heavily milked
coffee words a poet’s tools
are now dull with overuse
unsharppened they hack
at the page haphazardly
like machete wielding guides
in a rainforest
it used to happen like love
but now I’m divorced
from the

Long Way (for M2)

We hadn’t spoke in months
but then my phone buzzed
like a startled rattler or the
end of the period it came
from nowhere like a water
spout and drenched the fires
of my longing like zealous
volunteer firemen the call
caught me by surprise like a late
night doorbell my hello hung
in my throat like a starched shirt
too perfect too starched were my
words that they fell from my mouth
like glass


The day stretched
like putty to all
hours of night crickets
and light breezes
waft through my windows
like the light winds
of Sunday afternoons
the weather feels like
August when its only
May in Hawaii

the day stretched
like a lazy cat into
night humid and airless
a service kitchen full of
cacophany the sounds
of night bleed into
my window on a moonless
night nightmares take hold
like intruders in the shadows
the night feels like NYC


Your eyes the color
of autumn and shaped
like pecans your smile
as delicate as porcelain
as white as alabaster
your chin a point
separating the triangles
of your jaw your throat
a pillar of strength and
the pools of your clavicle
invites my kiss
I kiss your velveteen
lips feel the moist softness
like a damp cloth and
move my tongue
to yours