People only 
care for 
however long 
they must 
and when 
the must
is done 
off they
go to 
the next 
flower or
bush or
friend or 
lover or 
whatever else 
will give 
them nectar 

Seven seems right 
six not enough 
eight too much 
no not years
itty bitty hours 
that go bye 
whether it’s sleep 
or romance or 
intimacy seven seems 
just about right 
enough to do 
enough to make 
enough to know 
if one seven
will lead to 
fourteen to twenty-one 

This is 
interesting this
the peeling 
or whittling
hacking over 
chopping done
now this 
how does 
one know 
that what 
one dismisses 
is less
than what 
one finds
how does 
one know 
that the 
peel or
the whittle 
is less
succulent 
or less 
useful than 
the fruit 
or stick 
or whatever
is left

One light on
casting orange night 
enough to see
leaving the rest
to my imagination 
of the body
next to me
once humidly familiar 
now under the 
freshly fallen snow 
of heavy blankets 
that rise and 
fall like the 
downhill ski slopes 
of the buried 
mountain you are
and at the 
bottom last nights 
clothes pool like 
a glacial lake 
where the once
last night you 
began to thaw

To witness 
hubris descend
into regret
is a
sweet sorrow 
but hardly 
a tragedy 
for those 
who bank
on tolerance 
frequently are
the first 
to abandon 
their respect
for others 
and the 
price is 
often high