Sitting in front
of a blank page
pulling sheets
overhead or drinking
cold coffee
page stares back
at you blankly
praying like
acolytes for
inspiration
dewy sprinkling
on green grass
sitting and
hoping for the
first word to
start
like watching
the sun rise

He was one
lover of four
he was the
last one
last lain railroad
track nearest my
heart
he’s back there
now in the
past
my heart aches
with holes
where four lovers
lived and that
wound is the
newest it bleeds
beats awkwardly
weeps
he stole a piece
of me making
me pang in anguish

I expected a call
yet all I heard
was night-time
silence
three o’clock a.m.
quiet
filled my room
like spray insulation
sealed
hopeful I wanted to hear
good news or lusty whisper
I just wanted to hear
something

what replaced me

I’m not an answering machine
somewhere to leave feelings
I have a room
full
of silence

Writing is yelling
into a deep canyon
without sound returning
it’s kites without
tails or flashlights
missing batteries
why do we use
return addresses
on things we write
or throw our work
into the outback
like boomerangs
writing is very lonely
except yesterday
when an echo
echoed
I love your poetry
from the internet abyss
and made me as giddy
as a teenagers crush.

I unframed your
picture today
a recently dismissed
employee
it remains a pause
in time a snapshot
laughter embracing
pensive seductive
I don’t know which
expression was removed

I packed your
clothes today
children going to
camp
memory stained
denims sweater
boxer-briefs shirts
I smell you in every
garment like a bloodhound

I tossed your
other things today
they’re on the stoop
or in the back like
stray cats
vanity beauty
pride contrary