I was
unexceptional,

in chronic pain
from the blistering
inattention

of those 
I admired
and longed
to befriend,

until one day
I passed beyond caring
for such things, 
laid down
and slept 
still alone and
unattended;

woke to find

I’d become 
a gem, uncut
by other hands
yet faceted nonetheless
by

the process
of loneliness
curing into

solitude,

and thus transformed
became

sought after,

what I had once longed for
and what I no longer

desired
to be.

If I am to be 
one hundred per cent honest,
I have little hope
of anything for myself.

As often as I suggest
to others that there
is hope to seize
if one seeks it,

I do not seek
for much beyond 
what keeps me together
each day from 

moment to moment —
sometimes each moment
stretching to an hour, sometimes
shrinking to swift-changing

seconds of certainty that
then turn to doubt. I see
so much in me that is
weak and helpless when faced

with the work that needs doing
on myself, my loved ones,
my city, my nation, my people,
my world. So little time

ahead; so little energy stored within;
so much agony in the way
of stepping to it, and so much 
guilt at being forever in my own way.  

Keeping it one hundred per cent:
hope is not a commodity 
I am willing to spend
to repair this wretched scaffolding.

I leave it in
the hands of those
who will not squander it, or
those I hope will not squander it.

It’s all I’ve got, really; the leftover hope
that I will be of some small use 
to someone who is 
of more use than I have ever been.

All you really want
is to be touched.

Listening to someone;
feeling the air move
when they move;

not enough.

Let the familiar, the unexpected but
welcome hand come
to rest on your shoulder;

it’s enough. 

Let yourself
be spooned, even for
a moment, while half-
asleep and half-weeping,
face turned to the wall
in a dark room;

it’s enough.

You would like 
more of course:

someone listening; someone
to stir your skin, 
to be present
in all your spaces;

but a hand on your hair,
unheralded, asking for nothing
other than to offer itself?

Enough.

after losing a thick-armed struggle
with others gleefully unlike me

I am overthrown and then
as I am laid out by blows

upon dirt and scrub lawn
I stare up at sky of bruise-hue

in early dusk and imagine
I will rise at first slit of sun

on horizon 
this view is called hope and

is a bane of those
with whom I struggle 

their thick arms no match
for that sliver of sun

which prompted a belief
of potential resurgence

in a beaten skull
and soul

1.
He was never as fond of ocean
as he was of desert, perhaps because
he was born near the former
and didn’t see the latter until
he’d already learned what it meant
to long for escape. After that, 
he imagined joy as a dry place
that bloomed seldom but riotously.

2.
He frequently had a certain look — 
a barely downturned face, 
sharply raised eyes and brows,
neutralized mouth — a look that said
he was judging you; not necessarily
in a moral way; more like assessing
the level of concern
he should allow for you
should your contact continue.

3.
When he loved someone
as fiercely as he could, 
he could not love himself 
equally fiercely
at the same time.
He did not love many that way
but neither did his self-love
ever rise to such a level
that he loved himself much 
at all in the times
between those strong loves.

4.
Upon his death, 
a white bird rose from 
the peak of his roof and
flew to the nearest ocean
to apologize. A brown bird
rose from a bush in the backyard
and flew to the closest desert
to apologize. A red bird 
rose from pavement outside
and flew to each lover in turn 
to apologize. A black bird
landed on an oak in the front yard,
turned its head down, raised its eyes,
and began the hard judging 
of the life that had just ended.