Oh, Anna Marie,
the Ohio grass was green
the trees were
green has died
in your winter
lightning strikes fork on
your temple tremors these
Shawshank cornerstones
fall to dirt
shakes and groans in thirsting throats

It is a funny thing to turn thirty-four
It takes me no more than ten minutes
Of staring at yellowing maple leaves
To restore the thought that even my maple trees will die
And then, it hits me:
I want a death with all of the proper documentation
It is true, even if it may not be the case in certain parts of
Pakistan and India

The cold horse river spills Indian eyes
Angel feathers burn in gold smoke
Soul civilizations were robbed of serene mirrors
Creek hearts fall over the dream cliff
Telepathic windows catch dead bird words
The good-bye tunnel links lost voices to the underworld

Hey, Mr. D. I see you. Do you see me?
You call my number twice a day.
Sometimes more. I cause you
no trouble. I do as you say.
Hey, Mr. D. Do you see me?
I know the sounds of your step.
Your black sneakers are my
favorite. Even though your
pants are too short.

My skull is thin as twice an ostrich egg,
a finite orb. But buried dark and thick
a universe of tiny stars sits cheek
by jowl beside grey matter, like blinking
fireflies in the branches of a pine tree
after dusk. This is no special magic.

a picture taken every day,
deposits
for my heart
through my eyes
one day you’d leave
and i’d have you
right there,
in my pocket,
in my hands,
always