06 June 2013



Butterflies, she said,
there has to be a better word
to describe the torment
in my guts like I've been
split open—her insides
bursting out over a field,
already soaked, all ready
to make the preparations
necessary for plowing and
rending the soil and seeds.


False starts, somehow,
make the most poetic advances.
Like the cry of a cymbal,
and the whine of a trumpet;
like the hesitation on a lover's face
as she turns away at the sight of you
to hide her secret smile till she puts on
that grimace only she can pull off.


It's like being poured out
onto gravel, sinking between
the sand, as your toes
grip and grasp the little rocks
from the shifting ground
beneath your feet. They fall
between the places you'll go,
leaving imprints of each step
on your soul, like a tiny ocean
of ochre left in your wake.


Acts 1:18, Psalm 22:14