Daily Poems

The past is wind beyond the sail Tomorrow, the sea not charted And today is the toll, Paid to the boat in every bucket bailed

It is a low ache Like a foot, a knee Or a dry door hinge— You gotta get low to contend with it Lying in the dirt Squirming and flexing Really making yourself at home

Head full of sky— High, wispy clouds Like far away fog, dimly glowing The sky is no longer dark But the sun has not yet risen I am counting stars from where I lay Before they fade into the day Before I finally fall asleep

It is silent at night No crickets or birds Until, once more, I start to hear the roar of the sky— All the city’s noises Swept up into a torrent And carried by my bedroom window— A metropolitan tinnitus Easily mistaken for my conscience

The river of time flows south and west Toward the setting sun Which has settled gently, like an egg To weigh heavily on my predilections— Though I live for the taste of morning light I am hungriest at the lips of night

Soft sliver Second home of tender tongue— It isn’t what was said But where I said it

Wild weather grows the roots— I am tendrils Unfolding like new green Around your aching arches Still soft from the storm

I am bivouacked at the head of the bed— It is a good place to endure the rainy weather As I wait While the body of my ambition Remains to bury all the dead

Fixated on my shadow Waiting for it to move— Stupefied with self-loathing

I can feel each speck of sand Loose beneath my skin Spilled out from the hourglass Looking for the perfect place To become a pearl

Alone in a room, The scariest place to be— Knowing no one will come through the door Until you are ready to leave it unlocked

This wide-eyed stare A demon’s soft-spoken body language— I am teetering on the edge of the bed Awake, and work this guilt away? Or hush the shadows and hide my head?

I am cursed with such good fortune To never have a reason to go to sleep

By a hundred tiny increments I turn you tighter and tighter— Coiled like clockwork Waiting to exhale

There are pests in the bed These bugbears of sleep Insinuating themselves into my history More doubts than memories

I can feel moonlight on your skin Silver ink on snow-white paper Inviting me to a midnight showing Of the flower that never blooms

Dew— Every morning I take a sip And rot