her solitude was powerful
like the moon commanding the sea

The World is an Ocean

The world is an ocean but no one told me
just how tired these arms could get
when the night sky drew overhead
like a down blanket embroidered with stars.

Trees bend in the wind in the same way
I lean against the deafening silence
in a train station inhabited only by me
and the way my breath stills the air.

Blades of defeated grass stand resolute
as tombstones for worms and me,
biding our time until the sun
pulls back the blanket again.

Passing Like the Seasons

I haven’t heard your voice for
four days. It’s less than a week, I know,
but it feels like a lifetime of breathing
in sawdust from the wood I have
fashioned into new bones for myself.

You’re finally home after four days.
It’s less than a week, I know,
but four days will turn into four weeks
just as summer casually turns into
autumn, and the dead leaves fall
to the ground as mere memories of
their own emerald glory.

It is the fifth day.
You are home with me, but
I still don’t hear your voice.