My itching hands reach for the perch of a pretty flower
Whose petals splay in unison
And of equal distance to each other.

This is not a drill. I must behold the flower,
For its skin in softened light of
This Dim Room
Casts a creamy, glowing texture
Upon its flat and fragrant tears

To take these tear drops of dusk orange,
To replace them for my own,
Is to learn peace, that which
Only a pretty flower knows.

Crying on his doorstep,
Pressed against the house,

I say: I’ll steal away at midnight
But please don’t leave me now.

He says: I’ve taken from your heart
But don’t forget you’ve stolen mine.

Sometimes nothing can be figured
And two people have to say goodbye.

The graying trees of coming Winter
tangle and re-tie.

As a clustered bunch,
they strain to hide
the softened pink and blue
of the setting sky.

Lines across a page, they're like:
the bristling wooden branches,
which the wind, a subtle thing,
wraps around and touches.

But, like me, stay warm inside
and at their very center -

So therefore, a chilling wind
can try but never enter.

Shivering like anyone who's ever been in love,
I leapt out of the rain
and dove into his arms.

I slept there for a little while,
kept my head steady,

And for the first time,
for the only time,

was no longer lonely.

The Old Man is dying.

I have read many words on many white pages

And so, from this, can say:

I have read many words on many white pages

And yet have never felt
The dawning break of day.