I never speak ill of the dead
it’s those who live
I worry about.

The sun, giving too much warmth
for the time of the year
and how we never seem
to fully enjoy it.

On windless days
I find myself gazing
into troubled water.

If the branch on which
a bird sits,
breaks. Will it fall?

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Walls don’t die

The wind had been blowing around the house all night, howling furiously. With a pounding heart I had listened to clattering gates, flying branches and dogs barking restlessly. As I delayed the moment when the dreams of the past night had faded to the point where I had no choice but to enter the real world with all its limitations, the memories came.

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Summer lilac

She knows time heals no wounds
and even time is relative. Without calendars
she wouldn’t even know how old she is.

She's heard of deserts where the dunes sing
with a guttural sound that puzzles scientists.
On the other side of the world, ships crash
in the Bermuda Triangle of her memory.

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Hound dog

She knows Elvis is dead
still sometimes
she just has to believe

in the harsh light of day
after a night of lies
she carries water in leaky tubs
to a turbulent sea.

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Whether it's something or someone
I'm waiting for you ask
with a lip that trembles
for reasons I don’t know.

We're sitting on a hill
overlooking a city
where no one dares to believe anymore.

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