* Still a broken heart *

Clouds depart, emptying.
Left on me deserted sky, vast vacancy,
Much sorrow under the brilliant sunlight,
As if it cares nothing.

Wind orchestrates,
Leaves whispering gossip,
Millions accounts of the life and death
Of things that cross our mind missing.

Much was lost, things I forget,
But not that haunting thought.
Reminding me that I,
Under the Sunday afternoon, still a broken heart.

* Left *

Your shade leaves that agitates my heart,
As though moonlight vanishes in that thin morning mist,
Into silence, you depart driftingly.

I sit up into a pitch of dark torment,
Forgot the length of time, weakened corps aches as if the deaf hears the cry,
A self floating.

Vast, void, antithesis of eternity,
Fear now sleeps in me, surrendered to night terror with my incapacity.
What an atrocity.

Yet you assert this is reality, as I 
Inhale the emptiness that permeate the uninhabitation. 
You left; “morning has been blackening.”

Robin egg blue
Wintery lentil soup
Inexperienced parenthood

Heart-pounding 
Forestry wedding
Your voice in our tiny kitchen

Ash tree seeds
Baker’s yeast
The irresistible moisture of your wee lips

I miss you,
And all those miscellaneous reminiscences,
My memory a daze, bygone is a future once might be reality.

* Cloud *

The trillion molecules
Drafted from the ground, station in the air,
Transcend into heaven, we once called.
The immense, remarkable.
So light it weights as angel,
So substantial it sustains storm.
That which shadows the earth,
The unimaginable, so to speak,
Ask Kant, we call it sublime,
That trillion molecules,
The awe-inspiring wonder.

* Read Tulips *

“To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free –“
You said.

Whispering into my wicked bones, like fairy slips through lichen and moss.
Lie on the floor awaiting to be taken,
I smiled as if this corps would be still for ever.

How free it is, I know exactly.
Yet I miss the excitement of the spring earth,
That chill of a summer refrigerator,

Calling me is the voice of a country singer.
Now that I think, 
Even the odor from the back alley of Parc Avenue is somehow familiar. Not only that,

I wonder what it feels like when my son pees on my arm,
How painful it would be, to see my daughter falling on the ground,
How wonderful it is, to see an enfant growing into an adult.

And I want especially,
To hear you read Tulips to me,
So much,

So much joy awaiting,
So many miracles pounding.
That I have to wake up, into this dreamy reality.