The Runner
“A man too gentle gets left behind.”
                                Nancy Schoenberger

The roads go on, ending only
in reduced images.
is my way of returning
to a place,
                      to this room infused 
with foliage, the street lights 
merged in a single lamp.
you are awake. I lean to kiss 
your waist, the muscles
like spreading water, 
                                                 but skin
is anonymous. I am spared 
my face. Only later 
will we need words
                                             the spaces 
between them, a distance
we must try to cover.
Dumb Supper
Again, I ask for you. The table
is set. Your plate waits
for its portion of face. I wait
for the silence to be broken
like bread, for the proof
of your fingers upon spoons.
I light a match and lamps
hurl their nets across the room,
walls become lace, veils
filtering the focused silence
of a swarm. Love is the smoked
hive, the honey. I remember
your arms, the strained veins
of petals, the balanced bloom
of your body I pressed my mouth to, 
your face flushed with stings.
Tonight my hands smell of flowers 
crushed upon cloth, the shirts
stiff with knowledge of your body.
In the short-circuited sign
of my window, each star is a letter
not lit long enough to form words.
From The Dark
Waves recede and rise. I watch
a surfboard on its quick descent,
children tumbling from the slick
grey stairs. All our climbing
comes to this: The pine tree
sways, its tiered green reaching
nothing, and the stump, like a cone
thrown in a pool, the spread of its rings
blending into earth. Still, it will last
the whole night, dry enough for burning.
We break it beneath our boots
like a new trail, stack it into piles,
markers that will lead us from the dark.