There is something about a Don’t Walk sign

There is something about a Don’t Walk sign
seen through a sliding glass door
stark against a sky I know is cold,
Ignored by pedestrians in a hurry to get
to the bank
or work
or school
or anywhere but here
Unaware that there is
nowhere
but
here.

Winter Flare

A terrible butterfly of pain has descended,
spreading crimson wings across my face,
padded feet upon my waterless eyes.
It flutters on my skin, reaches bone and sinew,
twines about me the hands of some harsh lover whose name
I thought forgotten.
So familiar, so despised, yet sunk so far beneath my breath it has
become my breathing.
I am these wings,
this scarlet mark.
As time creep onward, I remain this beautiful pain,
dwelling in the hollow of fire-scarred bones until
this careless Monarch departs.

Moon in Scorpio

I ache with this
Bones hollow, like birds
Knocked down by gravity,
Feathers spinning before me to
Cushion the impact.

I will crash
(the repeating pattern of my life)
Against the rocky hills of you and
Scramble for purchase.

How often have I done this?
How often grabbed from flight and
Held by hands,
Fingers stroking at my desheveled heart.

I don’t learn.
I love recklessly, over and over.
And it’s always a surprise,
This aching, downward spiral.

Eagles are wiser than this,
But not hummingbirds and
My wings beat faster, wilder,
More frantic than theirs.

For Future Reference

I’m bleeding away a dream today.

Maybe it’s the heat or maybe I’m hallucinating,

But it felt like I held you inside again.

A softer, smaller version of you

Born from my own exhausted flesh.

Some small part I got to keep.

It wasn’t a dream I really wanted —

Most honestly it was a dream I was willing to settle for

Because I thought I had to settle.

That there was no option to refuse.

And so — I welcome the blood staining

My thighs.

I’m happy to see it, to feel it and dip my fingertips in it.

I’d use it to write your name on my mirror

But I don’t want to summon you back.

You are a purveyor of second-hand dreams pulled from

A worn out well.

Nothing you offer me endures.

Your words crumble, postcards in an open flame.