Black Friday

On looking over my harvest field,
To see what crop my life might yield,
I was amazed to find its state,
For I had left it to its fate.

After seeing red almost all year,
Night’s darkness during day appeared,
And so a profit came to me,
There was fruit where fruit should be.

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The Domestic Interior

All of this time spent 

making and remaking home
in my latest self-image, 

arranging common objects
by color and height,

into bouquets of dried memories 
laid out alive before me;

turning down the bed, 
like an envelope full of flowers, 

a repository for the weary-
hearted wanderers of my life; 

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Gathering Rose Petals

to be romantic

to steep in bath water

to float in a cupped hand

to read into

to press in a book and forget

to remember today more than other days

to remember what I like to do

to remember who I like to give rose petals to

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The Sky is Falling

When the Old Man fell,
it interrupted all scheduled programming,
including Britney’s tenth birthday party,
where I was one minute
feeling

to pin the tail on the donkey,
and the next listening
for the sound
of a pin
falling.

Falling
like ashes,
ashes from the sky
in Oregon.
Fifteen years later,
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Someday This Will All Be Gone

Time tends to create an opaque membrane,
with more limited optical clarity
behind the lenses of eyes

that automatically adjust for distant targets,
when someone, who is very fond of blue,
comes near.

It draws the taupe veneer of history
over the windows of the heart,
goading light from the front of the house—

What if I could shine from inside out?

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