She suggested walking at night
when the sky was relatively clear.
There you’d find poetry, scraps
tucked into moments – an ocean
of yellowed nightlights defying
an absent sun. There’d be more
luck there than in off-white rooms
all filled with glowing screens
and things too like life.

it was cold.


you could work with nights like this
where the memories are blurred
and the rain is underwhelming
and you miss midafternoon coffee.

there’s a dosage you remember
that dealt with nights like this,
but they were all long ago
dead in different / same problems,
now her face is blurred
her fingertips are waxy,
waned with all the words
I’ve stuttered through since.

“Myself to Myself”

I sacrifice myself to myself
dedicate this falling blood,
filling wooden grooves,
to all I may or may not be.
Nine nights, moons, years,
any of these i’ll bleed
and burn for, if only
change will claim me
by the end of all things.


Alone at night
is when the most poetic
ideas arrive.

They gnaw through walls
once carved in granite
granted great powers
by the sanctity
of the mind.

Images coalesce into one
half sun facing portrait
soon to be sung about
but ne’er seen again.

Before long it fades
for fevered dreams
to take its prideful place
amidst the obvious