I imagine bright pink
tongues finding delicious residue
and the skanky build-up on coffee cups…
I rebel and put the wooden handle chopping
knives in with the rest of the silverware.
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I want to become this story. I want to have never heard it.
I want the day to begin with coffee and weather and light
out the window, to be lost in the moments and have that be all…
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“The enclosed poems are a sequence of psalms "songs" on the themes of spirituality, mortality, and the underground.” - Darryl Lorenzo Wellington
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I dreamed that we had
raspberry-mint tea on a weekend morning,
and it stained our blond wood table. Then
it kept on pouring, and we were dancing
in the red and pink…
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Dig your fingers deep into the wet clay soil
that squeezes at the fingertips the further down you go,
The rotting calendar pages bloom spores the color of fur on
the paralyzed cat rotting underneath the lilac bush,
turning the petals the most brilliant shades of blue…
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The only nearness
I feel is silence.
God gave us these flaws
I’m nurturing them to my likeness
nature intended openness—
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"Crystal Cove National Park, California”
"Crossing”
"Upon Seeing a Glimpse of Your Thigh One Evening"
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“Upon Considering Waiting as Circular Movement”
“Your First Gift is Making Stone Out of Everything”
“Sometimes the Moon is Missing”
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At age nine, a book told me that ghosts could fall in love with revenge. The words stitched
themselves around my heart and held it together…
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The painter has been so vague I can make
the location whatever I fancy but not completely
of my own fabrication - her pensiveness,
her solitary walk just ended by the water
dictate a scenery I can’t ignore, a geography
of no known place, except for fleeting thoughts…
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