Sitting alone
In a dark house,
I'm the only one awake,
Obviously.
I close my mouth,
Open my ears,
And listen
To this old home's
Old tales.
Each creak of the floor
Was once the thud
Of young, quick feet.
Every surge in the pipes
Once was tear
Of any kinds.
The fan quickly whirls,
Too speedy for sound
But the drone
From electricity.
This house is too old
To ever be silent.
This house is too old
To make me feel alone. 

back where i belong at last.
where people i love
live and learn
right along with me.

Endings

Endings don't just clear away what is over. 
They also end unfinished middles,
and just-barely-begun's. 
Endings are sad that way. 

Yet at the same time, 
if nothing ever ended, 
there would be no room for things to get started.

So here's to endings,
And the half-baked dreams you're still thinking up.

May your every ending be a blessing.

Le cimetière des Errancis

They tell me that
« Errancis »
can mean
"wandering"
in the same breath-
basically-
that they tell me
the long gone
dug up this
cimetière
and moved it
to the catacombs
with no plaque.
They forget
to tell me
just how the past-
all the lingering
imprints
commonly called
ghosts-
are supposed to
find their home.

Ne pas errer
sur la rue du Miromesnil.
Errance,
les estropiés vous accompagneront.

She's leaving me.
Slowly but surely,
She packs her things
So she can leave,
So she can go to uni.
She's leaving me.
Swiftly and surely.

She's got gray in her tail.
There's white on her nose
And spaced about her whiskers.
She still acts like she's two.
She is so full of life.
I will miss her when I'm gone.

What Good is Spilling Blood?

What good is spilling blood?
It will not grow a thing.
What good is plucking feathers?
No harvest held a wing.

What good is sowing salt?
Seeds do not root for dares.
Most dangerous of all of course
Is to leave your soul quite bare.

A Protestant Alone in Mass

I sit in the back,
Not because I want to flee,
But because I'm less visible
When I don't stand up
To take communion.

To be honest,
I sit in awe the entire time.
The traditions and the beauty
Of the service wash over me
Each visit without fail.

Still there remains
The feeling that I don't belong,
Not here,
In this sacred ancient space.

I stay on the edges,
Looking in.

Cats may look on kings;
Yes all of us know that.
But who do you think
Was the first to say,
"A king cannot look on a cat?"

A drought of rain,
Broken by storms.

Poems lost that will not come,
Summoned by sleep.

A new month.
New chances.
Time for new sleep,
New tasks,
And eventually,
New classes.