Hazy days 
of summer 
when even
without sunglasses 
seem dark 
a sheer
curtain pulled 
across mountains 
from north
to south 
everywhere faraway 
seems gone 
except for 
little hints
like memories 

Suspicion of
is frequently 
worse than 
the act
it’s gnawing 
a silent 
pick pick
pick on
that which
binds it’s
an erosion 
a shifting 
of the 
weaker points 
breaking is
bad enough 
but breaks 
can also 
be reset
and heal 
trust rarely 
ever can 

Would I if
I could maybe 
not I wouldn’t 
go back to 
untie the knot
anymore than the 
tree can wish
that the hollow 
it had grown 
around would disappear 
something’s just are
a part of 
who we came 
to be and 
without wouldn’t ever 

Love isn’t perfect 
I don’t think 
it was ever
meant to be
we made up
that little fairytale 
in the sandbox 
at the prom
or maybe when 
we played house 
love isn’t answers
either but questions 
like is he 
or am I 
and if we
are how long 
if I’ve learned 
anything that love 
is it’s that 
it’s a paradox 
and part conundrum 
attempted only by 
those who dare

From little 
to lots
and loss
from once 
to new
to next
and now 
from tempest
and tempting 
to calm
and careful 
so goes 
the boy
to man
and beyond