under the snow

ev'ry single blade
of grass is buried under
a foot of snow.

December 23, 2009 in the late afternoon

I'm failing to keep up.

How are you?

We're close to perfect.

(Jilly Nines is 11 years old today - there's a little party in process).

Are you home or upstate for Christmas? Or in Curacao?

Tell me you're someplace warm.

I.

Need.

Some.

Stories.

Of.

Humidity.

every once in awhile on a saturday

i can't seem to call your name. can't use
the phone, can't buy you flowers.  but
every once in awhile on a saturday, i
find myself throwing a brick through
your bedroom window.

it's one thing

'it's
one
thing
to
draw
a
map,'
she
said.

'it's
another
thing
to
be
on
it.'

yo yo

when we're walking

the dog, when we're

going around the world,

you let me out on a

string, you pull me

back in.

what i will remember instead

this time i promise that what you've forgotten i will forget too.

no one proved it happened anyway.

our bricks are made of paper that's what i will remember

instead.

or our hearts are made of paper that's what i will remember

instead.

things

things poems say:

- i wandered lonely as a cloud

things poems don't say:

- honey, wheres my apostrophe