The cascade of admirers
huddle below...

She was art; you were an answer book.
Nothing about you was tinted dangerous...

A street sign stood crooked with its
face an arrow pointing straight...

The risk of bowing our knees
on the ocean's glaze...

Poetry is meant to be tasted, called beloved,
summoned when you have dotted lines on...

Once, I dreamed the glossy black
grand would be gracefully center stage...

Should I approach with caution?
For when my backside is groaning...

Whispers behind the wall hinge
themselves to skin cells like...

Narnian dreams attached to lunchbox stickers,
rustic doorknobs, and squealing windows...

Too many decades, becoming
captive to ourselves...

"You will be, the only one."
His voice never faltered, never cracked...

The stigma of your eyes
unnerves me as I fumble...