along with the

feathered fragment remains

in ashes of clipped wings,

he kept his love in a dust pan

hidden …

from where the light would find it.




looking down through his glass 

held by hands like bricks,

he saw where the wine from tears

had left their stains of disappointment 

deep inside the splinters of a broken table.





with a carnival balloon in hand

and paper banjos playing softly beside the river he walked home,

pausing only for a moment

to released the fictional helium hope

of ever finding his own huckleberry friend…

then quietly placed his love in the museum of his soul.



the pile of faded blue t-shirts

that sit silent in the corner of an empty room

still have the scented memories 

of his wasted kisses, lost loves,

and the absent knowing

of how to feel something for someone.