the rain light

Why the week was
holy and sad:
these pages smell like
rain and soap
there is a new
way of writing:
send your 20 old
secrets on a postcard from a
porch that no longer
you and your brother sitting
outside the house with
the split oak door on
Elm Street behind the
huge pines
send the secret in
cry in the night
get answered by
love on the phone
and at the bar
justification for the
fierceness of love
an old lady at
the bar saying she’s
always liked me
some people from
the bar
have false memories,
not talking to me
some people
at the bar
give me hand rolled
cigarettes for nothing
bring hand rolled
cigarettes to my door
church bells Sunday
morning, the warmth
and rain, heal

all mist outside
bright eggshell light sculpting the rooms
it’s Atlantis and Pacifist
come swooping together
spraying a seagull
with silver clouds
the river looking like
hot silver blood
but being cold hard
spirit to the touch


this is not you
shovels of snow
footsteps in a hollow
sweat now


the river is dark
blue sun blinding
coming up the stairs
“it’s hot and stuffy and
wet smelling in here”
she says, opening the
windows. I’ve had
the flu
body ache freezing cold
restless sleep
The Book Thief story
entering my life, part
of my #33 life
my feather hair life
my snow thru the roof
life, I saw the flakes
but the cold ate them up


I am 14 on the
day of moving back
in with my mother
trains whistle
and neighbor’s holler
at each other
clouds silver and gold
move thick and slow
from the ground
to the top of sight
Marvin Gaye on the radio
and a haircut in the kitchen
the clouds moving slow
unread poems in my
a breakfast feast: cinnamon
rolls, pancakes, sausage, bacon,
potatoes, eggs, omelets