the full moon sits outside my door
waiting to be fed.
four highways away i know you smoke
on your way home to bed.
the stars of the indian summer fall,
lie sleeping in the trees
while into the silvered field of grass
i've lost my certainties.

we talk in tapping paths of light
and sing our pools of fear
in hope that somewhere in this mess
the other's heart will hear
through all the shuttered words we say;
our liquid armour born
and tempered in this Hades fire -
scarred, but proudly worn.

is this the end to wandering?
is this the death of doubt?
is this what poets have grieved and sung,
what the shouting was all about?
i do not know the why of this,
the how, the where, the when,
but i can say to you, my love,
i'm writing poetry again.

2003

lightning struck the house next door
and no one lives there anymore.
cars keep crashing on my street
on sidewalks where the children meet
to play the games the stalkers like
and cars are stolen. so are bikes.
my neighbour had a heart attack
last wednesday, and they took him back
to the hospital where he spent his life
on the drugs that kept him from the knife.
the woman who lives two doors down
is missing. they think that she was drowned
in a boating accident on the lake.
i hope not, for her mother’s sake,
‘cos she has cancer of the liver.
another blow like this would shiver
her world, and break it down to dust.
i just don’t understand the lust
for tragedy most people seem
to want to have. it’s like some dream
where you’re standing out there at the edge
of the crowd and gawking into the wedge
like cars that slow at the accident site
and people who look as if they might
see a body part. or a splotch of blood.
i wonder, if they thought they could
would they take away a souvenir
so that they could say “hey, i was there,
right there, when they carried the bodies away.”
it’s kinda sick. but i can say
that i do not follow police cars.
i shy from the yellow tape that bars
the murder scene, the bombing ground.
there is enough tragedy around
without my being there to see
the things i know could happen to me.

2002

two candles in their frosted light
a woman’s fall, an autumn night
a hand, a word, a quiet respite
i traded much for none

two sentinels of reddened stone
a wish for love, a wish for home
a past and secrets to atone
my sentimental net

a face that turns from a lover’s kiss
a shame that washed away the bliss
forgiveness lost in all of this
the autumn of my regret

2002

if i'd never said hlo
there is no way you could have known
the way i cry out when i'm touched
the way you touched me, or how much
i care when i can see your pain
in your voice, your face, my shame
when i realize i am not them
and never will be, never can -
impenetrable, like your lingering sighs,
your far off gaze, your steely eyes
that drew me to caress your skin
and bare my own. it was no whim
or maybe it was, a horrid mistake.
three weeks, and no more could we take
of misunderstandings and darkening words
which flew from our fingers like awkward birds
that fly from the trees at the gunshot sound
to settle on more peaceful ground.
peaceful ground. a sheltered place,
i could not tell you to your face,
was what i sought within your arms.
a rest, respite, an end to harm
and strife - a place where i could smile
and laugh and touch you, all the while
knowing that you felt the same
or similar. a hope that you could tame
my restlessness. but not for me.
no safety could you ever be.
too much, it seems, has now been said
and skins, our scaly armour, shed
to give comfort to the hearts rubbed raw.
no friendship here - is what i saw
in your face, in the dark, in the pouring rain
and i knew it could never be the same.
i tried so hard not to let it show,
but i wish i'd never said hlo.

2002