A flower 
is still 
a flower 
until its 
last petal 
is plucked 
and then 
it becomes 
anything but 
what it
was known 
to be 
to bees
and all
of the 
other things 

Had I known 
at the onset 
that my journey 
would be measured 
by inches and 
not by miles 
I would have 
paid closer attention 
to where I’d
stepped and not 
spent so much 
time chasing down 
the horizon ahead 

I know you 
in ways most 
do not have 
not will never 
and every time 
I spy upon 
you be it
picture or person 
I cannot unsee 
just what I 
have of thee

Curtains frame 
like bangs
or tufts 
of passion 
weary hair 
messed out
of place 
suggesting lust
and abandonment 
and cozily 
in between 
twinkle far
off lights 
flashes eruptions 
then the 
expected clouds 
of sleep 
erase everything 

Today eight years 
post I’m finished 
I have taken 
the last blow
severing what little 
was left of 
that thing then
it is monumental 
this but of
very little fanfare 
nothing more remarkable 
really than closing 
a book and 
sliding it slowly 
alongside all of 
the other manuscripts 
which up to 
now made up 
the library of 
my marvelous life