In Praise of Syrup

The maple trees have formed an arch
That leads us to our room and bed;
A quaint old house from 1910,
With yellowed photos, quilted spread,

And pancakes stacked on pancakes when
We rise from wonder in the night,
A perfect sweetness in our mouths
Like love that knows when to be


but colder still

my love, you knew me in the frost
and held me warm as you could hold;
my love, you gave me everything:
a home and walls against the cold

now biting is the winter’s wrath,
sub-zero like the arctic dawn,
but colder still a fireside
ablaze, but now that you

are gone


stems or out of spinning wonder
collocated dancing preening
sharp like crack of early thunder
derelict in point or meaning

you the magic worker shameless
they the audience enraptured
this the day and worktime aimless
those the moments left uncaptured

on a street of ever forward
every vigilant and humming
i in hunger looking onward
to a dawn that’s never


Photo by ID 181583495 © Philippilosian |

A Lake at Sunset

If only I was something more —
Then maybe you would love this shell,
And not recoil from a touch;
Such constant and self-loathing hell
As I find in myself each day.
  But yes — all this is beautiful.

If only I had status — then,
You’d take to me, and want the things
I had to give. But you do not.
I’m supposed to like there are no strings,
But I’m not really made that way.
  But yeah — this is a gorgeous night.

For those of us who’ll win no prize
For wealth, nor symmetry of eyes,
  Must know that inequality
  Of this kind is, it’s plain to see,
    Accepted and approved of by
    The female half of humankind.
  For men who can no status find
  Are out of running, out of mind,
But slow to give up, asking why
They should lay down and hope

To die

A Lavender Sea

Across, beyond, within, between —
I love, you love, but we don’t love
The way we meant to try to mean:
Throughout, upon, around, above —

Our feelings are our falsest friends.
They steer us towards, away, astray,
Where all our means turn into ends,
And futures into



they drove across the field and they were silent,
she stared ahead in quiet disbelief,
he was the one thing she thought she could count on,
but she felt no surprise or rage or grief

just numbness at the news that he was leaving,
that all that they had built had been a lie,
and that the fantasy she’d dreamed of making
would never be, but always be


Kid You


You know this place.

You know this place from once inside a dream:
A dream about a life before this life,
When just a Coke machine meant luxury.
In flipping dials, in-room heat and air,
In eyes wide open, mid-chlorine and all;
In dripping in a towel beside a pool.
In comic heroes viewed from in a store
Your parents bought the towel in, and a box
Of candy-coated popcorn with a toy
So cheap and flimsy, it would die that hour.
The world before events became the world
And hours spent in ways so un-ideal
Defined the self you show out to the crowd
Who isn’t here — who wasn’t ever here —

But you know this place, you know you do.

Yes, you.

Missing Autumn

She misses when the days were cool
And calm, and things were linear
(And though she’s told it doesn’t matter,
Back when she was skinnier)

She misses how the seasons slipped
Into each other gracefully —
But now her world is melting, though
She tries to take things patiently

She feels the sweat of so much worry
Tearing at her every day:
She misses when the world seemed cool
And calm, but all that’s gone