“Hey, conductor, / how much for two tickets? / Tonight / it’s my poems and I.”
One thing about fire, / even the slightest / tongue will seek / another to burn.
if you have a favorite cup remember it might be broken
Life is not like Beckett. / Only Beckett is like Beckett.
And at night in our bed / the bird of me returns // to the tree of you.
occasionally there is too much ado / about night-time, that’s fine, turn out the light / and slide me in the grave, this time I’m through / with sounds and lights, for me now dreams feel right
Of gifts, / a naming of parts innumerable / changes becoming— / wind flame river wish. /
All the different birds flapping in your chest, / each one a different future. I tell myself / you didn’t choose this ending, you weren’t afraid.
Just up from sleep and pillow-peace. Outside / more wind in trees, gray air right on the cusp / of blue. Not yet, but soon. Brand new, untried, / these hours of life.