Poetry

It starts with a word.

Or does it? What was it
that came before.

My love for you drains away into hidden sewers
Written words: the openings
In the streets
That were supposed to lead you to it.


***

Sullied cycles spinning.
We are at their mercy with our selective expansion of sections, not knowing, not willing, that this is what we are.
Forgive us our fears that are just forgetting.
This time will never come again as long as I live, but we've lied about longevity and death quite long enough. And if all that's true, there will come a time when lies recede like tides, and warmth is an earlier begin.
Begin.
Begin in any moment you can, the beginning of the middle, the solstice, the equinox, the beginning of partway through
The beginning of an open hand in the circle of I love you.

***
'Canadian Haiku'

In the pitch of night
The cacaphony of geese
Brings the deepest peace

***

If I say I am a puzzle
You will break me into pieces
My figure out
Side to your knowing
So, be One
Who shushes (me)
And knows

***

I love you as one should love all people and things
As one loves a God;
Without sight, sound
Taste or touch
And more powerfully each day.

***

Love my sadness.

***

"There's ( ) in between these spaces. Before and beyond them."

***

You don't know what I mean, do you?