i swear by all flowers

had i

even once

been rendered faultless by love,

perhaps i wouldn’t now be

so afraid to commit

the sins of which

we should all be guilty



This is the Corner

This is the corner where I kissed you for the first time.

In truth, you kissed me.

I didn’t want it to stop, but

you started it. 

All I wished was for summer to last into fall but then

I looked into your eyes and it was I

                                                                who fell.



I never told you about my summer,

assumed you wouldn’t want to know about

all the other kisses on

all the other street corners.

About the sex I had with someone else two blocks from here.


As sad as I am that I won’t get another chance

to kiss you on this corner,

this place feels like home,

maybe the first I’ve ever had.

Every piece of pavement recalls

another joy,

another stumble,

another dirty fingerprint that marks this place

my own.

three haikus

over and over,

i forget to remember

that you’re really gone.


(but i’m not supposed

to let you see how far you

stole into my heart,


so if you’re reading,

just call this poetry. just

call this lemonade.)


i look at pictures of mountains now and

i see you in every shadow.

i imagine myself the sharp curve of rock you

long to hold onto,

my heart the summit your own heart won’t let you abandon

without reaching.


what a miracle,

the way love reshapes the world

gives each rugged face new meaning


except i have no say in these definitions

i am no mountain

it is so much easier

to let me go

there is a mouse in my kitchen

small and dark and quick to disappear

like a shadow i almost don’t believe


but even with the mouse under the stove and

the soft canine snores from down the hall

this room is lonely

this house is lonely

this weather is lonely

and i am–


forgive me.

generally speaking,

i am not very good at trusting things i can’t see.


late at night,

i dream about breaking in and taking back

everything i had to leave behind.


this is not figurative.



your disc drive on which is stored

every memory of my teenage years

does seem

an apt metaphor

for all that you took that i wouldn’t get back

no matter how many

windows i smashed or

doors i pried open

while you lay fast asleep in the bed we made.