In last season’s leaves
Watermelon bits of you
are beetle-covered
and evaporating with
wing sheathes whispering
deliver unto us the fuse-lighter

The church basement tip-line
is ringing off the hook
If you or anyone you love
becomes the victim
of a cold case bombing
You may be entitled to a disappearance.
or was it social suicide?
or solitude?

Every lost connection in my bed
resting their fingertips on my skin
in the half-light rosemary oil dusk
but a wire sticking from a box labeled “hats”
catches the corner of my eye

Dear People I Live With
did you mean to leave this gunpowder
in the Christmas decorations?
Yes, we did
and now that you mention it
can we just be friends?

After a decade of the Work
I am still googling “sadness”
and re-reading the Wikipedia article
about Homo Sapiens being the only animal that cries
or has expectations of clarity

I am feeling
Onward and multi directional
I am realizing I am pain
That sits with the Circle
And unlearns Mother’s teachings

mischief?
No goblins now
just orcs with jobs to do
and slit-finding knife tang words
in our Grandfathers’ backs

my future?
In friends’ hands
Like she did mine make
the lovers’ hearts
snap and vanish

Am love?
only if
the One
could be
me