Love Letter

You write about the moon
its opalescence
a bowl of shadow and pearls

the way it paints over 
everything it sees
the world in pallid gloss

You write about art
its multitudes
the lawlessness of expression

the ghost that shapes
everything we do
the bent arm behind us

You write about love
its essence
and of the helplessness

the violent shooting heart 
without restraint
the thunder after the strike

You write 
You write
You write

and it makes me sick

Fever Dream

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I dreamed last night
of an empty room,
of absent colour,
swaddled tight
in pitch and gloom.

I woke in fright, in
spice-lined sheets,
the heat of night
having bled a cool
clarity from my mind – oh
I dreamed last night.

I saw darkness seep
into the lines, and
blur the light
and though I know
I have no right

I long to tell you why
I dreamed last night.

Something

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I’ve got a drawer full of shoehorns
from all the crackers,
from all the Christmases,
since I was ten.

Sometimes, I take them all out
and line them up from
one end of the living room carpet
to the other.

In order of year, I start with the
burned red cedar of ’91,
when Dad took us out
to see Grandma,

and end this strange lineage of mine
with the neon green plastic
of last year, when I took us out
to see Dad.

Tonight I will open the drawer,
and lay out this ribcage
of memory, just once more
upon the floor.