Clemens Road

I get lost
on my walk
to see you
in your lost

state. Boiled down
to a translucent film
at the bottom
of a pot, what’s left

will be our eyes
and our hands. They speak
a language
of truth.

Who Embezzles Stars

Is the book
still king
on some other planet? Do inventions run

along parallel sun
rays? She asks
these questions without knowing

what to believe
anymore about the universe or red doors. Who

she might trust
to protect these poems
from shattering into weightless space debris

is who she might ask
to answer the rest.

The Dead Can’t Hurt

No longer in the run around, she traipses
across an invisible line
between mentor

and visitor, room
and mask, smile
and lie, tears
and truth, lover

and ghost. A new
preoccupation might not be so kind.

Fact or Fiction

The details have begun
to fade—was it June
or July? New York or
Cleveland? Who were you 

opening for? Was a body
of water involved? I could sprinkle
these memory ashes
downstream into the river 

deceit. The truth: 

I haven’t forgotten even one
detail. Down to the pocket
in my dress, later chewed and torn
by an innocent Airedale. 

The truth? Do memories drown
when they’ve served their purpose?
Is two decades long enough?
What if they float?

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.

Georgia One Revisited

To confuse sense
of place with your lap, accidental

falls with the truth
as it comes out when

I’m asleep is to reenter
those dreams I forget.

Day 2,703

Some days she’s not willing
to dig deep
below a scratched surface 

truth. Some days she just wants
to see her
reflection crack
and walk on. Some

other days that become nights
she would rather go
blind than acknowledge
the visions trapping 

her heart inside an under river
tunnel. This could be
one of those.