Has it really been that long? I feel so irresponsible, as though I've left a carefully tended garden to fall fallow or overgrow with weeds.

Loves made and farewells bade, it's been an interesting two months or so.


Poetry for the dead.



The empty lot.

seven isles of woven crabgrass
clinging in tandem
spattered among the concrete waters
debris belched emptily, singing
of careless throws.
glass--pretensions of glass--litter the still waves.
O pollution, fickle father,
your ocean has no
beauty.



dipole

we are as molecules of water,
polar--drawn so close yet pushing away
picometers become parsecs
and we try to draw close
but we only push away
and into each other
violently

surface tension
pulling pushing evolving exciting
stirring into stagnance

we are as molecules of water,
alone




arithmetic

numbers
numbers
numbers are sorrow
numbers are pain
numbers are pleasure
numbers are games
cold and broken
cold and calculated
without feeling
without shape or form
we number
he numbers
she you number[s]
to truncate to inculcate
alleviate abbreviate
the freedom of no
numbers