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I Don't Want a Cookie

I don’t want a cookie
or a roll.
I don’t want you thinking
I’m lost because
once I was sad enough
to write it down,
or because faces
make me cry
with the kindness
of their teeth.
It’s not for you to bear
the flaws in my voice
from a ghost I’m chewing,
when I’m more attentive
to the break in the threshold
than to your hips
in the doorway.


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Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

The Body

The body is aware
Leaning through the side
Losing all its hold
Giving all its pride
Tangling with space
Paring with a flame
Falling past the end
Rising all the while
Give it space and time
Give it fear and hate
Take from it the good
Leave it in the ground
Thankful for the dream
Grateful for the sound.