In the Junk Drawer

Twelve cotton threads twist into twine,
Soft and loosely bound-up balls,
Kinked from use
Well water laundry gray,
Each piece about the same,
Salvaged,
What others would discard

The funny thing about it is,
Each piece is always just enough,
To bind my paper,
Tie my plants heavy with fruit,
Adequate,
Pieces are a lot like that

Eyes shifted slightly to the side,
Cautious smile,
Cautious touch,
Resisting emotion,
Just enough, but rarely more,

And yet,
There are 12
Balls of twine,
Crafted just from that not used,
Abundantly available

Dream Vacation

To lie beside you deeply in the sun,
And feel the crystal air upon my face,
The preservation of my flesh began
By salt evicted out of air’s embrace,
Although the landscapes beauty does impress
And to all senses detail does appeal
The naked are not able to undress,
The true heart recognizes the surreal.
I linger here to lie, concocted peace
Tendons slack and muscles undefined,
Conscious and unconscious thinking ceased
Temperament and duty unassigned
In my home I  ruminate for hours
Habits of the heart have many powers.

Relaxing

On the dock
Sun scribbles bright on water’s edge,
Electric charge of silver,
Delicate and fleeting,
so Beautiful-
to watch as skin grows warm
From heat bounced off the water,
And just as quick as life bursts
into green from spring’s first rain,
unexpected retina ghosts of orange and blue,
haunting clouds,
play a game with darting eyes
that can’t outrun the image
just like dark deeds
of fumbling hands,
wretched breath too near.
All negatives have hollow eyes and fleshless teeth.

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