The scary things came out one night                          
    and she didn’t know what to do
So she shut her little eyes real tight                                             
    but it only enhanced her view.

              Crumbs

              If I could sink
                 into the nap of the rug
                   I could gather up
                   the tiny pieces of my life
                   that have worked their way
                   past the strands of yarn
               and wedged themselves
           gradually
       into the very fibers and weave
    and design a new and multicolored tapestry
     of crumbs, dust and fuzz
       where no one would notice if I never vacuumed again.

                            
                             Potato Chip Waltz

                            Corruption of the ages                                                                           
                            when living the years                                                                                            
                            of the dance                                             
                            false steps and tears                             
                            fall hard                             
                            a quiet wrinkled care                             
                            gliding crisply                            
                            across the ballroom floor                             
                            in cracked three–quarter time                             
                            A careless dark refrain                             
                            in endless “C”                             
                            Repeat                            
                            as crinkled                            
                            potato chip waltz.

                                  
                                          Untitled

                                  Create me a world
                                  where nobody sings
                                  and nobody talks or writes of such things
                                  And I’ll show you a world
                                  where a life is much shorter
                                  than a death, short order
                                  in more than just letters
                                  that no one would send.
                                  

Face in Pane

Correct me if I'm wrong
but 
didn't I see you the other day?
Staring at me
through the blinds
from far away eyes
and long ago tears
Hand pressed hard against the cold pane
and the old
Your mouth moves
as if to say some
important words
of solace
of why you were
and where
that day
long ago
and so far away
that I could not see you
pressed against the glass
the cloud of your breath
writing the words to come
in wet rivulets
down my face.