Headstone
the air said goodbye
light strained credulity
granite streamed crystals
voices sounded like ice cold
water trickling down a body
shimmering in elegant silk
see the skin behind as if
the material’s molecules are
transparent like curly white hair
the eyes see through
the goodbye, the water, the silk,
the way a gargoyle incessantly
whispers to the world
from its perch in the sky
_____________
The Odd Invitation
It’s your turn,
stretched and unbalanced
above the waves.
The boat’s ribs, branches
of the good tree
housing the dim light
where you squint
into the chart held down
by smooth stones
now shifting in accordance
with wind and sails
heeling the boat into dark water.
Through the hull,
you hear the absence of air
and the click
of the odd invitation.
____________
Sweet Nothings
It is good to hold nothing
in your hands, As such it is
not a burden, because it weighs,
well, nothing.
To gather sweet nothings
as in, to collect hot whispers
directed into a warm ear,
is good. The words don’t go
in one ear
and out the other,
but tumble into the throat
and slip into a kiss.
There is nothing wrong
with nothing. You can see
how harmless nothing is
by looking into a mirror—
threaten nothing
and what will it say,
what will it do?
You can argue with nothing
and storm out the door triumphant.
On a day gray leaking
from low clouds you can
count on nothing—you can bet
your life on nothing.
But then, there is always something,
and something can always go wrong.
Rusty Truck 