Leaning Against Hope

Where is the sun,

giver and taker that

follows its own path,

when I am like those

who go alone? The

open mouth of rain

nearly swallows me

whole and the omens

I hear are the saddest

elegies from birds I

have known, their notes

scratched on my scrap-

papered soul. My former

self tells me I don’t belong

here either. I may not even

last like the sally tree that

pales every time in the

breeze, and leaning against

hope gets harder to do.

All too quietly my thoughts

have been erased. Nothing

but death’s merciful, wel-

coming touch.

The Lost Grammar Of Scars

On the breadth of twilight

I add up the clouds,

the solar eclipse above me,

giant enough to darken

the sky; and, as always,

my soul keeps tugging

away from my bones

and the lost grammar

of scars across my

knuckles and wrist.

Memories like heavy

beasts from my past

turn themselves over in

my mind, fragments from

childhood unreadable as

waves. Now time slowly

reassembles itself before

it’s all gone and I sleep

reaching back to my

synapse of inner light

till the sun ignites the

dawn.

The Brass Handle

In the time before

dawn when night

had stolen the sun

I make myself scarce,

hidden away by so

many scars. My heart

half open, I welcome

the sorrow, closing it

before I can breathe

to keep the tears out.

Tiny panes of glass

let in the dark light

and the walls housing

my soul have left me

without anyone, only

rainwater to swallow.

I lock the brass handle

on tomorrow.