Timbered Miles

On the desolate shores of winter's gray
mouth, the fields are barren, still, like
the dead-calm of melancholy oaks
raven-coated and sighing, naked and
leaning. The old farmhouse remains a
considerable walk, but there it sits,
shackled to the earth like a rotted
stump. The frozen snow beneath my
steps yawns and breaks in small
murmurs, like an overture to the
whispered trespasses of my youth.
The wind blows as it does only here,
on humpbacked, timbered miles. I do
not seek refuge, however, the
restless light in my eyes settling on
broken panes and torn roof, listens,
deaf to the diminished day, damned
to focus on what is not, what should
have been.  The weathered door
cries as I enter, an echo from the past
stirs. I have been here before and not,
these memories have been dressed
differently; though now, I am a child,

the snow, white sheets folded back.

Silence that Proceeds

This thin morning has blood on its timid
lips, the salty rain cleansing nothing of
the swarming night, leaving hollow light
spackled to silence that proceeds,
carrying the staggered dawn into the
dead air of afternoon, where I wipe
my sullen eyes clean. 
The rose-wood sun glares, pinched,
like something guilty, a sorrow
shouldered forever,
loss screaming at itself. And yet, I
stand in silence, wondering,
while the memory of the night before
withers helplessly into gray naked doubts.

My skin stares at me yellow-white,
like bones in moon-pale desert sands,
my arms ribs of buzzards, my hands
skulls of cattle. The street is crammed
with staggering cars that sound like sheets
of aluminum foil being quickly crumpled
into tiny balls as they pass.

The surreal haze of movement, screaming,
laughing - chasing me away from the
littered street, where the rising sun
once again meets me head on, and I crumble
into the desperation of her face - lines
of drawn shadows dig into her skin, cracking     
something there into disposable pieces,

things one witnesses and never speaks of,
needles of light that reflect
the sun's desire.  And her pleading eyes
call my name, though my voice remains
silent, immersed in a pool of broken
promise that my heart cannot save, leaving
her only the crumbs of my soul, while I run...

for I know it is not enough to love.

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