The Curator

In the hollow
of who I was,
carved from what
was lost
or incidental,
I curate my collection
of misfit dreams.

Delicately,
hopefully,
I weigh each one
against the jetsam,
knowing that this
has cost me
everything.

Unbroken

I would be yours,
and you could be mine,
unbroken across
a thousand promises
to the eager horizons
of tomorrow, and tomorrow.
But let's not call it
forever, and
let's not say it's
the same thing. 

The Woods of What's Left

I can no longer tell

what love is and isn’t,

and anyhow

I’d only do something silly

if I could,

like trying to hold it,

until I rip

once more along that

old fault line of hope

and fear.

I think I’d rather let

the question dissolve

in the warmth between

our hands, and just keep

walking through these
patchwork woods
of what’s left of you, and

what’s left of me.