A dripping bowl full of soggy remnants,

the wide circle echoes this shapeless canyon within.

Every edge wobbling on an uncertain curve;

slipping feet into an approaching dusk.


Placed in a tired hue. The colors have been overused, it seems.

Simple water is needed to wash away the marks.


Plain but beautiful,

this weight sits in my chest. I can't determine what it is; this strange age prevents understanding.

Undulating between melancholy and awakening,

is it waiting to erupt into something new?

Or am I simply imagining, like so many other bubbles,

filmy feeble iridescence,

foam that quickly dissipates into gasping mermaid breath;

and my thoughts churn just as uneasily, in similar Ariel desperation

to become something I am not.



slippery -

these things are too easily lost and impossible to claim.


Return to a black-and-white morning,

where silver spoons spell out the moon, cereal flakes the only comets, star chunk oats, and Milky Way liquid rippling.

All remains untouched.


Empty, again and again, I find myself. Standing at the edge, waiting for You to come.

I don't know, those inexpressible feelings again.