I always notice the dreamlike quality of
clouds, their soft layers of hazy beauty.
I often see daisies in dry bones.
I dance with skeletons, ignoring the witch’s
I stick my hand in the boiling
cauldron and call it comfort.
I pay no attention to the clock’s
I’ve repeated your name so many times
it sounds like an incantation.
When do I stop hoping?
When does your name mean
Do you remember dictionary?
I pile on the words trying to
reach your table.
For one moment, I grasp the surface
just as my chair folds but refuses
I pick up syntax from the ground.
Your form takes shape on the paper
only as you are walking away.