I'll show you doors, if you show me time.

Pen

Pen,
he meant.
All those tiny angels?
They dance on the tip of a pen.

I am so tired of what it means

I. Am. So. Tired. Of. Money.

The Language of Birds

There are true things
woven in and between the threads
of wicker summer chairs,
under orange juice caps left
unscrewed for hours on a Sunday morning countertop,
and lying on my carpeted bedroom floor
beneath finished crossword puzzles
now discarded.

Outside, hidden birds
chirp of these subtle, true things
(if it's not too hot)
clearing their throats
while ducking from shadow
to shadow,
grateful for the trees.

And like in a dream, I recognize their colors-
the shapes and curves of the letters,
but I cannot read the words they form.

For all the beauty
I can appreciate in their songs,
I cannot speak the language of the birds.

Don't Forget

Your countertops hold fruits of such glory,

but glory is such an ephemeral thing,

and fruit, if not eaten,

turns quickly sour.

I suppose the same thing can be said of words,

and butterflies,

wine, and silence,

and all those other silly intoxicants

that I keep a little too close to me these days.

So what's a man to do, but give in,

and try to let love become his only constant.

Your cupboards are vast and full of such rich stock:

your memories have scale and grandeur,

but funny thing about memory,

it can, so casually, toss your heart in a cardboard box,

seal it with the sticky pull of packing tape,

pull down the clanging metal door,

and click the padlock closed

until you only take it out

so you can reminisce about

who you were.

I fear to lose it, too,

But I prefer to carry my heart

sewn into the laces of my shoes

where I can pick everything up along the way:

all that dirt and dew.