231 - 240

your eyes are ancient

warm stones well worn by waters

impossibly gray

i think of my heart

empty. but what i see are

hollow lungs, breath full.

soft stone seattle

you've grown green moss on me like

lichen on a tree

driftwood driftwood!

you're back from the sea!

paid for salt with your sap you're

as dry as can be.

you walk like a cat

soft padded swagger, straying,

a feline beeline.

blood red ink

i don't remember hurting

writing, yes

how you phosphoresce

in natural light, to your

touch, a testament

in rescue

roots severed by spades

in effort

i am not waiting

held in place by sky and earth

dust i will become

'i'm old,' you profess

scrolled tongue and papyrus breath

rough edges curled lips

221 – 230

not yet manifest

i've been thinking of you in

wild flowers, sweet tea

we stare into space

city bus commuter cadets

needling through time

urban turbulence

to shuttle me home, so slow

most low flying jet

your absence is smoke

gray taffy pulled from fire from

embers still burning

the break in the floor

shows old paint the color of

old bones split, pale. dust.

in pursuit of more

or just the quarry itself

i'm deeply exposed

i have climbed this face

and for what then? give me lip

an edge to leap from

perfect trees, tall, call

i wanna run through your legs

a cat through a crowd

curled up cats napping

a quilt of soft grasses

hills warm to the touch

i am alone as

i chose to be, always. now,

a wolf in a pack.

211 - 220

slept on thoughts planted

like stacked mattresses on peas

sewn restless, soon reaped

spat lies from lips

subtle as missing teeth

a gap. stop.

under warm gray skies

my dad and I walk the beach

tiptoe over rocks

am i green to think

what is will not die like leaves

off trees in winter

born in the heartbeat

between soar up and plummet

waits flight's relative

soft dawned ophelia

to be drawn into words not

to be drowned by ink

silt sand burial

retrieval of an era

weathered to feathers

after you ate, left

i broke the plate washing it

i got cut, before.

little bear bumble

soft tumble thru bramble sticks

fall, sting bees, the hive

we dine by the tracks,

watch the weight of freight talk the

table into dance

201 - 210

crescent moon

not a missed mark, arc

through study of slivers we

reach understanding

neutral translator

hardly. you soften her words

like milk on broke bread

winter skeletons

trees white knuckled branches

snow lace parasols

old man, you disappoint

but friend,' my heart sinks,

'what good's a tugboat on a

ship filled with water?'

by gone i mean done

like a stone's polish finish

end of an era

(trapped) your hair ensnares

soft filaments, i give in

a spider's envy

early that winter

that morning, goose bumps took flight

on your hand's light breeze

surfacing from depths

your hip bone crests the surface

the exhale of whale

stray gray hair,

loose white wire. old house with an

unfinished attic.

straight from the cloud gate

gallops of rain turned gallons

troughs emptied of thirst