a dragon twists on wings of fire,
flowers in the opal clouds,
spiraling, then swooping higher,
distant until night haze shrouds

love my only friend is waiting,
tiring at the close of day,
like a dragon fire abating
as it makes

its distant

weary

way

to stand out from the rest is who you are.
you do not wear this like a crown; it is
more of a testament to what you've seen
than how you let it color your intent.

for much is ugly in this life, this way;
for we must live within our egosphere
and bloom where we are left to grow, or wilt,
as suits are disposition and our strength.

to stand out from the rest: your destiny.
for it is meaning that you freely give --
and knowing you has opened up my eyes
to just where joy can be, and in what form.

dreary not
and solemn never,
celebrating
what she can;
half the distance to
forever,
measured in
a second's span

followed on,
and leaving after,
adoration's
full repute;
living love and
loving laughter,
choices
just herself
to suit

special need
and general freedom,
spanning many
kind regards;
knowing much, and
helping many,
fortune's favor
in
the

cards

upon the snowy ground he sits
to see the sun go down;
the day is turning into dusk
across the sleepy town

the lights come out to show the month,
the air is crisp and clear;
but he's just glad to see the show
or even to

be here

it’s just a scent,
an essence, but
it fills her with
desire most
prosaic

ancient accidents 

and analytic splendor
on the table.

does she think of him?
she does, but
it is nothing like 
he wants

precursors 
to a dance,
in hazelnut
and vague mismatched
capitulations.

he tells her that
it's all a dream;
she tells him all
her secrets

and everyone who watches
sees the game

it's just a scent,
an essence, but
the coffee has
intention

their difference
is what makes them

the same

patter, pitter,
well, but bitter,
deep in throwing 
a no-hitter,
love the heat,
but hate the splitter,
quitting time,
but none’s a quitter

little good happens in
American courts,
little good happens
in American courts

sibylline
on triviata,
sails set on 
the day’s regatta,
got some hate,
but not a lotta,
travesties 
become errata 

little good happens in
American courts,
little good happens
in American courts,
of course things seem
out of sorts:
little good happens
in American courts

a wonderwatch,
a distant shore,
a not-so-little
anymore

a tiny hand,
a growing need,
a place to grow,
and then concede

that time must win out
at the last,
that now is now,
and past is past

but love is floating
weightlessly
beside the ever-changing 

sea

behold, the critic:
who can tell us
which are valid feelings

so convenient
having that today

for no device
to labor save
is more appreciated

than keeping thinking 
for oneself 
at bay