The Old House

The old house, with rectangular windows
Is empty
No one lives there now
No one has lived there for a very long time

The house is empty
The long time is empty
Death, the long time of death
The long, long time of death, is empty

There are no chintz curtains
Or modernist abstract paintings
All that you have you take with you
All that you have your friends give you

All that you have lives with you
Inside and outside
Your rectangular windows
Inside and outside your old houses

Rectangular windows
Inside and outside
Of your long time
Your long time, of death, and of dying

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Before You Have Anything But You

All you are
Is all you are
All you have
Is all you have
All you have
Is all you are
All you are
Is all you have

Without a stitch
From the cherry and walnut
Inlaid wardrobe
Without a smudge
From the cherry and walnut
Inlaid dresser
Without a brush, without a touch
Without a crush of musk perfume

All you are
Is all you have
Before you have anything
But you
Before you have anything
But you
All you gave
Is all you give
All you give
Is all you gave
All you give
For those who gave
All you gave
For those who give

Without some hitch
From the foul
Or fair weather umbrella
Without some fudge
From the fake
Namesake storyteller
Without some hush, silence so much
Without the lush of husks presumed

All you are
Is all you have
Before you have anything
But you
All you are
Is all you have
Before you have anything
But you
All you are is all you have, before you have anything but you

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Juxtaposed Proximities

I smile
At your breath
Your easy hand
On our juxtaposition

I woke earlier
I think not then that to wake was any dare
Other than to share your morning
With the blackbird

And the fresh brewed
Blended Breakfast and Earl Grey
Warm
Warm tea

I lay in warmth
Of cotton and plumped up pillows
And the warm breath
Of the juxtaposed proximities

Of
Of our unadorned
Of our
Of our unadorned and naked bodies

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Kiss Stops And Lollipops

It is
That which we do not see
Or don’t take time
To connect with

Unable, unstable
My baby, my lady
I cradle you in my arms
I cradle you

Able to say love
Equal to any coincidence
By inference my
Intentions laid open

Only the clearest
Interpretation
My sensations caught
By shadows and sequins

Whispers
Kiss stops by the bus stops
Kiss stops and lollipops
Kiss stops, lollipops, bus stops

Love
Love, and chance, and lollipops
And by chance
She came to kiss me

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Of Passions And Pains

Juxtaposed
The grotesque
Twixt life and death

Of loss
Lost love
Of teardrops

And teardrop bottles
Uncollected
They lay beneath the Lilac Tree

Stored then, as unconscious finds
Transitory minds; the last one out
Turns off the lights

More chance than coincidence
More fiction than fate, berate
The tradition, it is then to be too late

To open the unexpected box
Either to ask the deeper question
Or to swing, as the fox by the sunlit fountain

Or fall, as did the clown, out-with
Of his crown, but weighted down
By his mountains of passions and pains

He was undone
As done
By deed, or gain, or fame, or shame

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