that I am dying is no surprise;
the tide came in this
morning but never meant to stay
                time tips even the reaching trees
the trusty sky rescinds its blue 
pillows to make way for falling birds
like a prankster yanking out a chair. 
some people save for retirement but
I'll die poor having banked only
kisses, swallowed them like
watermelon seeds.
              how warm they've felt 
in the leaning fall nights
but now it's time to send them away 
in letters sealed with the tip 
of a tongue. it's like turning a wallet 
upside down. the entire attached
world thinks you're mad.
             in memory you are glowing 
in the sunset off the coast of Burgeo
the berries never ran out that day
we were so full we tossed the rest
into the sea. but I could
never get enough of your
face. such small food, so rare
geologically speaking. 
          when everything is so full
years later it feels just as good 
to be hungry, starving a little 
for your touch. it's tragic how 
in dying we learn the reason 
why we are not permitted 
to live forever:
        we waste so much,
we have not learned how
to clean our plates.

​in the time before time 
before trees
there was moss
everywhere over
everything as if
a kind hand drew
along a shivering naked
sleeper a beryl 
gown from the sea
and the sleeping went
on and on in the moss
so deep so soft
sweet lullaby, lover you
could lay upon it your 
knife-nicked heart, out of 
your chest spooned
and set down an offering
to the green blanket 
to like a kitten curl
and purr for a million years 
thence once upon a time
to wake to the vertical hymn 
of trees reaching 
to weave their twigs 
through delicate air.
​

good bye beautiful 
aviator, I won't 
make this about me
your grief is too fast
already gone, your eyes
like licked shut envelopes
while I still
trudge along complaining
too sad to keep up.
I left your damp feathers
alone, didn't deserve 
them, not a single one.
​

​          maybe, as a kid, you were told that if you died the
wrong way, full of unopened baggage 
& screeching tires your soul would be devoured 
by crocodiles. and that--if you had any imagination--
          would not be the scary part, no, the scary part 
is you thinking that if your spirit can be devoured, 
die, then maybe your spirit's spirit can also die
and so on, think about it there could be crocodiles 
          all the way down. I've had weeks like that, it's true, 
days without bottom. the trick is to believe something else
even if it's foolish
if you're tired of feeling sorry for all those crocodiles. 
         my story has flamingos and love. I'm a silly man.
I make mistakes, show up late to funerals. someone made 
me out of clay and it's true I look more & more like a bear
every year. I'm good with crocodiles, though.
        I know the secret word that will make them
dance in their shiny hides. here, it's for you. I'm tracing it 
on your cheek. as is true with any magic or love
you have to be an lunatic for it to work.