Holy in the Infinite


March 2014


don’t (3.30.14)


if you can exist only in my dreams

don’t wake me

don’t ever call my name





Last Night I Dreamt

Last Night I Dreamt (3.20.14)


Last night I dreamt of you

Morning in the kitchen

Leaning against the counter

Coffee mug in hand


In daylight

I do my best to forget you

In the night

You still keep me company


Last night I dreamt us

Lying naked and laughing

Under the covers

Wrapped up in down


In daylight

People always leave

In the night

It’s harder to believe


Last night I dreamt of you

Tracing your fingers

Down my back

Along my hipbones


In daylight

I am numb to the new spring

In the night

It’s still the dark of winter


Last night I dreamt of you

Holding my hands above my head

Crying my name

Into my hair

Broken Dishes

Broken Dishes (3.29.14)


I wonder if I’ll ever

be able to take the pieces

of you,

of me

and press them back together

like our bodies

like a dish that fell to the floor

and cracked

left to a child’s repair

wondering if the moment of suspension

felt like February to the bowl

but I remember then

your irrational fear of glue

and realize

I no longer hold any light inside

I no longer hold water with you

as the tears leak unceremoniously

In A Field of Daphne

In a Field of Daphne  (3.30.14)

lay me down

in a field of daphne


swimming in the gold

of sunlight

undress me

strip me layer by layer

until i have nothing on

but you

and your hands

and the winds of your desire

tangle in my hair

A Quiet Murmur in the Distance

a quiet murmur in the distance (3.25.14)


when you hear the rain

on nights like this

remember my heart was a storm

a quiet murmur in the distance

that left you unsure at first

if you could truly hear the rumble

then the epic clap of thunder

startled you to waking

the flashing of light

through the cracks of uncertainty

then the rain that torrented

and drenched you in me

shocking you into awareness

you had been dry too long


but I forgot you are a stranger

to my terrain

you are not a native

to this territory

and you asked for an umbrella

to shelter you

my tears went unnoticed

for they blended in

with the rest of my rain


my storm moved out to sea

drifted across water and islands

and now I hope that you are left

with the echoing and cavernous quiet

of waking to stillness

like the stoic mountains that hold

the crashing of avalanches privately

to their unfaltering chests

and the silence of the deepest of canyons

missing their rivers and gales

while I am blown further away to soak

the stretch of plains

turning them lush and green

and the sunlight that arrives

in the languid late afternoons

will render the fields

shimmering and golden



The Poem I Should Have Written For You the First Time

The Poem I Should Have Written for You the First Time
(Written at the Overlook at Richmond Beach as the light disappeared) 3.24.14

I came to the edge
where the ground crumbled at my feet
and nearly sent me tumbling down
Leaving my knees shaking with the sudden slide
and the instinct to cling to the roots
Streaking my hands and face
with the dirt of your memories
choking on the dust of absence
My wrists still raw where you grasped 
to keep me from turning away
months ago, knowing I would fall.

I come to the edge late at night
more often than I should
Leaving my jacket behind
because against the harsh winds
I can’t speak or feel anything but cold
Which isn’t that different, in retrospect,
from anywhere else
Here is where I can have thoughts
and emotions that contradict myself
Here is where my anger can swell 
I can scream your name out across
where the water will swallow it whole

I let my legs hang over the edge
The same place I’ve sat for years now
My whole life behind and ahead
And wait for the answer
And the trains rush below
I hope that you let the light in
I ask for bravery
I pray for the fortitude and solemnity
of my newfound solitude

I lean back, upside down and over the edge
refusing to blink against the night
in hopes of catching more shooting stars
in the palm of my hand
saving my eyelashes in jam jars
collecting my 11:11s twice a day
and saving them for one massive wish
that isn’t that massive at all
The wish for a slow cup of coffee
with you
one where the steam and your eyes
linger on my face for just a second more
than necessary
and the yellow sunlight in the window
falls on my bare arms

These are the Moments I Ask You to Hold

These are the Moments I Ask You to Hold (3.16.14)


“What’s it like to die?” she asked

A futile answer as her question passed

“I’ve heard it’s warm and light and calm,

A soothing voice singing David’s psalm”

“But what about the shadows in the valley of death?

Who will be there as I lose my breath?”

I sought a way to reassure

But realized that my words were not a cure


A wandering of the hospital halls

Echoing with the keening grieving calls

A startlingly empty, unmade bed

It’s previous occupant gone ahead

A realization filled with horror

The souls could be passing in the corridor

A sad acceptance fills in my mind

Because to that bed, I’m now resigned


But to her I say, with smiling eyes,

“Don’t worry, no one really dies”

When someone you love has to depart

They remain there beating in your heart

I’ll still rest with him on the beach at slack tide

And over time, his grief will subside

And promise me you’ll stay steadfast

If ever you notice I’m not at breakfast

If my coffee cups stops being hot

It just means that I’ve been caught

In the sky by a gentle breeze

And of this, I beg you please


Whenever you feel like you might be alone

When the steadfast sails of your heart are blown

Remember the night we stood in the snow

And the crown of flakes began to grow

In your short dark hair and you laughed as I brushed

the storm from your eyelashes and I blushed

Wondering how I could love you so much

And how human it felt to feel your touch

These moments of eyelashes and snowflakes and laughter

Are the memories I ask you to keep long after

Those moments clothed in shimmering gold

These are the moments I ask you to hold

Get Empty, Get Light

Get Empty, Get Light (3.14.14)


breathe deep

get empty

shimmering, reluctant

The sharp little pang

won’t let me alone tonight

the pillows betray

where your head used to rest

your wings streaking the dark

into the cool, misted dawns


breathe deep

get empty

shimmering, reluctant

the knife still cuts

The blade was forgotten

he stitched it inside

to open the wounds

with each shift of my skin

against the sheets


breathe deep

get empty

shimmering, reluctant

the little white sparks

of hot pain like the razor

The blood turning to ashes

like it’s Wednesday all over again


breathe deep

get empty

shimmering, reluctant

I stand on the scale

with no clothes

counting the bones

like rosary beads

good thing it’s Lent

stations of the cross

provide ample time

for fasting and penance

in the name of corporal reflection


breathe deep

get empty

shimmering, reluctant

breathe deep

get empty

shimmering, reluctant

get empty

the cracks run deep

to let the light in

get empty



get light

My My

My My (2.11.14)

My my

My mine

My you

You are my my


My my

My graceful child

My wide-eyed owl

My girl so wild

My joyful howl


My my

My reflection clearer

My assumptions errant

My shattered mirror

My anguish, apparent 


My my

My empty rooms

My silent floors

My aching blooms

My closing doors


My my

My death defying

My tapping heartbeat

My soul denying

My loss, complete


My my

My evening passes

My mourning clashes

My flaming fire

My glowing ashes

You are my my

My glowing Ashas

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