Don’t you want me
to dance on your grave?
These ashes could soothe

more than feet—could be
those dead man’s clothes
are yours now.


Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless

over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved

the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost

is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted

with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors

to escape from the message:
not to be false.

The Best Thing To Do

To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath

is a risk

to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief

and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.

No More Delivery

On farmer’s market
day, she helps the blind
man find his time

to cross. The colors
of a vegetable stand meld
into one kaleidoscope

wish—to do
these things without
announcing them

as some addict’s letter
to the world. This is not
what Emily meant.

October Grief

Dust in a machine,
overheated thoughts trigger
emergency shutdowns. Zigzag

is not a place. This is
the only place
where rain comes in threads

that won’t dissolve
the glue she uses
to hold what’s left

of her together.

High Hat Wind

Moan or whistle, skyway
window panes are walls
of response to the lowest

air pressure to hit the state
in recorded history. Loss
of power isn’t the same

as how we become powerless
to stop weather patterns
of obsession from registering

overhead—constricting within.

Epitaph in Ashes

For Steve

Because there would be
no next time
around, she chooses to listen

to Nick Drake, Sandy Denny, Joy
Division the way he would have wished
if he still could.