It Evaporates​

You never lose a word from under the sheets

it can evaporate into desire within lightbulbs

of dark fiction. You tend to write about them,

blue octagons of your nightmares, the

lined frames of wisdom you neglected

to admonish. All these poets, they

love to see you crawl through utopian

skies. They love to see you die

a poetic death, make sure theirs

becomes immortal while your vampire

stories die under golden

Greek suns. I have unimpressed you

with bath time fun

you stopped playing mindless games

showed me your grey hair.

I can still cross my legs

be a drunken listener.


Howling at the Blue Moons

It happens seven times in nineteen years,

that random falling into you

and not wanting to get up

from your howls.

It happens more often than I

would like to count in my notebooks,

either the third or fourth full moon

in one season.

It is how the effect is pulled by you

directly into me.

You can look at the incantations

as paragraphs of my life

I omitted. You can examine


the subdivision of a year

and ask me to show you

more of my skin,

but I was drunk.

Filled with regret

and remorse,


and sex appeal.

Every additional full moon

moves my days into nights

and I feel you on the tip

of my tongue.


Year after year

nothing changes

but the wrinkles

on our skin as we track

down the moons

like vacation spots

or business trips.


What a view from the top,

what a view under me.

The moon reflects into us

and this rare event

is making us

understand each other

more and more.