Coma static call
from the broken phone down the hall

I can hear you
your whimper

the same moon shinning bright
on us
your thick legs of winter beneath
your grandmothers quilt

fog mist hand stirring our hearts
your breasts against my chest
black birds echo
the etch of pines at the great bank
of the valley decline
makes me shiver

connect
the static hiss
of our careful silences

the longing measured
between us

you always cry
sobbing
broken hearted

I built my door of iron and oak
it's thick well made and square.
The latch lifts with a creaky stroke
should I choose to go out there.

It has but a single tiny pane
through which to see the world outside,
to watch the sun or snow or rain
while I stay safely here and hide.

The frame fits tightly all around
barring air when winds blow cold
and admits only muffled sound
should sleet or hail drum loud and bold.

The barbecue is all set
A new chef in charge of meat!

He’s cooking up a new recipe
They’ll really have a treat!

Of course, it’s a secret recipe!
It couldn’t be any other way

And as long as they don’t know it
He knows just what they’ll say

This stuff is so damn tasty!
Can I have your recipe?

“I’m sorry folks, it ain’t happening
It belongs to only me

Enjoy the tangy sauce I made
Wash it down with beer

The kids need another burger
Put your plate right over here

lengths of silence
like a dream beneath the skin
of sky
the vault of articulation

the tradgedy of speaking

longing donor words
escaping
slipping up the valley stream
brilliant as a forecast
impending as love
fractured
and set with love struck
aching

grip me this granduer
captured
I feel the candour
turned about
an interest
fasting

losing reflections
for the flare of
amazing attributes

the mists from
broken mirrors