Far from Home

Headlights catch the highway
old thoughts of the day

worthless reasons
he fought for you to stay

the road seems dark
on an aimless journey 

when you hold steady
spiral and crash

wake up to the wall
that man with his flashlight

hanging on to your pulse
more full than empty

the rush of a blood army
keeping you on your feet

while down the street
loud engines accelerate 

making destruction 
worse than what appears 

and with each passing one
you hope to be anywhere

with anybody to take you 
far from home 

Never Arrived

It's too quiet for the cry
of a car crash, playing
over and over again,
but you wouldn't know
the sound if you heard it,

you wouldn't know the lights
of a rescue car, reflecting
off my ghostly face,
wondering how you
never arrived to see.

The Aftermath

Icicles melt like cold drops of blood
from naked roofs, clogged gutters;
they splash into puddles and disperse
with sounds that hush in the frost.

Backyard trees lay motionless;
they stretch diagonally,
divide the raw lawn, and sleep.
Look how they carry

the weight of snow, beautiful mounts;
for hours, it falls, it settles in the arms
of an oak and a maple, making the bark
tear outwards, like fresh fruit peels.

This is the sacrifice of nature,
the sound of quiet death.
These are lazy limbs that lost the fight
against untimely affliction. 

Listen to the aftermath—
souls passing by, saying, "farewell, goodnight."

Dog Years

Speak to the one
who stays home, who barks
when you have a good dream.

He will die on, say, Christmas
or your birthday, where the loss
will seem greater than the gain,

and you'll forget that some loves
never start, that your mother kissed you
from the doorway.

When you have to either bury
or burn him, some might say, 
"it's too bad dogs can't understand."

Ignore them
would be my advice.

Pouring on the Front Porch

For all she knew, he sat to watch
the power-line crows, the red-haired lady,
her sister running in the rain,

and what a shame that she stood too far
to see the blood breaking though his eyes,
the sweat puddling his crooked lip,

the idea

growing toxic
inch by inch,
night by night.