All in Poetry
That I’ll get better, that you’ll get better,
That we’ll really try this time and stomp down rain-slicked streets like we own them
Instead of scurrying through desolate alleyways like frightened children
Hopelessly lost and without umbrellas, nails bitten, and nerves shot
Our way back home lost the second we stepped out of the door
I’m tired of taking the train that always arrives,
the one that doesn’t halt in a blizzard for you to meet his eyes,
the drifting snow covers all of the signs.
My safe place is an old, red house with a big garden. The window frames are white, a striking contrast with the deep, rusty red of the walls. The large front door is open, welcoming all tired wanderers. You might notice the faint smell of a home-cooked meal wafting through the halls and out the door.
i strip away my clothes; it does not matter / who sunbathes on the rocks, drunk on the endless days. / i have things to do and the sea is waiting. // i trade salt for salt, serving up my heart / on a silver platter. / “take it” i say, and finland turns / its great cold eye in sober curiosity.
Spring has arrived at last. This winter was longer than those of years long past. This winter was cold and dark. I was alone. I was afraid. But not to worry, spring is here, winter is over. Oh, maybe this year I’ll find a four leaf clover, my dear.
Sometimes I think I met you too soon / That we were too young to have made it by any margin of reason / Too immature, too naive, too drunk on ourselves to care
