The trapdoor at the bottom
asks questions round and round
and in a creaking tenor, calls
to a tatterd collage, made from bits of cloth
that sits below the varnished wood
worn from dancing days.
And there, the shattered form of me
bent and fallen from glowing sunlight
summoned to those fading photographs
Pulls about a rich black agony
heavy, sweet and cold.
When I find some light to hold
and memories melt to dust,
your fading face persuades me
to slip between the floorboards
and find a blacker place

Tangerine Sunrise

Snapdragons, marigolds
a tangerine sky
dripping with low hanging mist
Checkerbloom, starflower
from these I fly
catching the steps that I missed
Violet, tidy-tips
Fleeing the sun
Creeping up into the blue
Larkspur, meadow grass
each new day I die
and reborn, start running anew


I found a gold-green feather tucked within my sleeve
as a deafening tempest raged from above,
I saw another fall from the sky
and the taste metallic carmine slipped across my tongue.
Down down down it came.
A bird rendered flightless
A uncurable mess,
I felt a new wind coming.

Your Visit

Last night in restless weaving
from fragile light to darkend lids
You entered my room in silence
And led me to the rooftops.
We sat under the velvet tapestry
Admidst a foggy urban glow
and dipped our hands into memories
that swirled about our fingertips
cold and somehow distant.
Earl Gray was a friend to us then,
bergamot and oranges,
the day we took the bridge to Manhattan
to photograph the downfall
in shades of black and gray.
How early morning, our breath rose
small clouds that made us laugh
as they found the darting rays of light
and played there, in the sun.
And you, with your dark smile would,
make magic come from six old strings
a melody from nowhere
that made dancers of us all.
The way we painted, feverent nights,
The maddening rush of it all,
The way we'd wrap our icy fingers
around paper cups, our coffee black
Like the center of that concreat gray
from which you viewed the world.
And as we sat, old friends again
the moon smiled a wicked crescent
and a coldness from within me sang,
that this was just a dream.