A foreign pen can become my defense.
Sometimes clean hands won't inspire...

I sense traffic's vitality
anticipating movement...

Hear our cries of devastation
while we fight for room to breathe...

I have known rain and weathered hands
stuck in time from a war in land...

Locked in a lighthouse
full of melancholy windows...

And I trace my scarred fingers
across a heaven's river of endless...

My heart needs to be a song,
beating from a dry moon gone hollow...

Somehow I wish for you to meet me
in all the places I visit unplanned...

I question spring's authenticity-
if she truly means to test my longing...

I knew you first as a whisper
among brisk, unsettled air...

Sensational.
Raindrops are braided among our thighs...

Every summer
a burden of memory...