We don't write when we are happy.
We write when we are sad.
Words, swollen and wet
rupture onto a page
unprepared for weight.

There is nothing to say when we are happy.
Weightless, the words wait
for substance.
A million words waiting to care,
to mean,
to swell,
to drip.
The sun dries everything that shines.
How I despise the sun.

Pendulum

In time colored happy by past glances from you
I swing back and forth the pendulum
and wander empty-eyed
through two-edged memories.

Driftwood unmeant for sea or shore,
but fire
burns red then black,
the wooden heart of wanting.

Wood that feeds on fire
plants new trees
and roars enflamed
more fertile than before.

Oh reckless love,
losing the half of you
you gained when loving
the terror of halves welded...
is the sound of ripping,
wrenching,
disrupting things soft
and bleeding--
the evidence and color of love.