Eight Months

While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure

eight

through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you

with me on and off
the trace.

Flash Memoir

“Anonymity is priceless.”
—Jay Farrar, Falling Cars and Junkyard Dogs

At the half
century mark, debris stops

falling long
enough for her

to see stars. Suddenly
she believes

in the power of the speed
of light to guide her

to a place
that needs

no name. Familiar
faces remain

intact. And another
song becomes

a homecoming

she didn’t realize
she was
craving in her sleep.

Fake Book

Rumors of notes
divided up—a settlement
made behind closed trap

doors. Illegal bindings
can lead to the tightest bonds
and rhythm section. Whatever

you call it—maybe true
love—spills forth
where the mapping leaves off.

Restless Night Reader

Your book turns
me on too much I can’t
sleep I can’t stop
for punctuation I’m a girl
cliché it’s your words
not those naughty
photos or sketches.

Lullaby to Icarus

The too bright
morning sun
has yet to burn

off any of this late
April snow. What good
is an international

film festival pass
if she refuses
to see? Drama

of the interior elates
her more than a car
chase her father would have laughed

over. The last notes
to the bridge
smell the best.

I Swear

How do you know
you are raising
a terrorist? Hate is

a four letter word
that leaves a permanent smear.
Love is

a four letter word
that can remove
even the most stubborn stain.

Dragnet Debris

With original denim
colored eyes
still seeking,
she puts her obsession with death

of punk music
to rest. Silent influences
to speak of
alone together. Another sip

of a double shot
espresso in a true demitasse
cup to stay—
and so she loves

more than one city
these days. No ranking. Even in April
sleet and slush, she leans
toward jean not leather

jackets. But still leather
boots over canvas flats.