Throwing Shadows

Two devils meet in the street.
Says she,
it’s been so long,
I didn’t recognize you.
You mean you didn’t recognize yourself,
says he.
Perhaps, says she.
You surprised me, says she.
I shouldn’t have, says he.
They circle like sumo,
waiting for the clinch,
unraveling threads of each other
that they might come undone
completely.

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Why is it that no one notices the river
until it stops running?
It is the silence of the clock that
catches our ear,
and the moon eclipsed is of greater note
than the one that shines in our darkened windows
every night.

The sun is forgotten
like all things expected
until dim, clouded winter
when it is missed like a lover,
like all things reliable 

cursed.

Noise only becomes music
when there are pauses between,
joy to be found in absence,
presence no appreciable gift.
No one is grateful for breathing
the in
the out
the in
the out
except for those who have nearly drowned
but I should be the only one
who takes my heartbeat
for granted.

This Voice

This is the voice I have,
plain and clear
not the song of a lark, but
of a Sunday-morning blue jay
that cannot be ignored
even
in your haze of sleep and pillow clouds.

This is the voice I have,
not the one I dreamed of, not
one that shakes windows, but
it does shake,
sometimes,
betraying confidence
like an old friend turned foe.

This is the voice I have,
coming out of my open mouth
straight from my open heart
well,
it’s ajar, anyway,
and the light is on.

This is the voice I have,
whispering truth, if you listen closely
like all voices do,
in time,
if you listen more softly
than they speak.

This
is the voice I have.