Rewriting Histories

Open the chapter of swimming. Under the June evening
sky, in the indifferent Erie waters,

the rippling continues where eyes cannot 
see. Sometimes, closed eyes are like a grain of sand

in currents so far away.





Circumnavigation

It can be strange              to live
where                               the landscape speaks
for the damned.
Erie is                           strange like that.
 
Even the reflection
glistening off                          angelic waves

of a bay called Misery                tells you everything
will eventually decay            into
particles floating in the   stagnant

Graveyard Pond             where just living
makes another urban legend.





Reason for this Poem

It starts in the discomfort of a moment
adding up to enough

you seek solace in whispering
words no one will hear,

your breath.





I Know I Already Told You

I just intend 
some of your 

attention. An intention is 
clearly written, so do 
 
not question what this says. I am telling you 
quite clearly, that 
 
this is what I mean:…





Waltzing in Tides of Salt

“Waltzing before dinner” is what
Matilda always dreams of, being from

a disjointed era far removed from
the days when people waltzed. She

never gives much thought to anything
other than where the next drink will come

from. Her eyes are the mystery of
an unnameable blue which refuses color

to the oceans, leaving them only the salt
of broken days. She dances to

nothing, and you gaze at her graceful
box steps, thinking her
music is a sadness you recognize yourself.