my last face to the wind,

an opaqueness to a

small translucence,

sand waiting to be borne.

even the sun erodes,

a gentleness taking more

than I can give.

wreck me!

be the final blow

.

drugs

drugs pull me easily past the emptiness

of sheets, the enveloping coldness

has no hands to press their five pointed

fire into me. a chemical warmth eases

eyelids into the luxurious kiss of darkness,

metronomic breath looses time to oblivion

.

map

the map of bloods journey,

a story of the failed flesh of

days, growth stunted as fingers split

among the rocks of hours.

a division of labor multiplied by nothing

an incomplete zero maintaining the

potential for less

1 ½ cups coarsely chopped cranberries

there are easier ways but I support
each one, whether almost black
or nearly pink, in the V my
thumb makes opposing my forefinger.

nipples are not cranberries but there is
memory in motion.

I slice them in half so they can no longer
roll off the cutting board. Ten or twelve,
maybe fifteen at a time. Repeated
until the mark in the glass
measuring cup is reached.

there is no hurry to complete a task
that draws out the day, there are too few
before the arbitrary line is met



.