Polite

Stretched and curved, corners up

may shame the sun,

but black holes

have nothing on the weight

of a slow motion

hello.

“Tired” is the polite

way to say

your face is breaking my heart.

A dancing past

Weird to watch

the old dance

on other limbs,

the choreography

dipping and dodging

spinning and stumbling and stomping

in much the same

way.

New flavor, but

I remember

swaying, staying

spotlights like headlights

on a skittish, anxious muscle.

Maybe you’ll learn, too,

a new tune and a strange,

precarious beat, a rhythm

set by your own feet.

At large, I’ll wish

you ‘break a leg,’

and don’t forget,

this is not a solo.

Holding steady, holding tight

Living holding the

string that keeps

my heart together.

The rumbling in

the walls of the world

shake the pieces like china

loose in a curio;

edges shifting,

crumbling–

tectonic plates,

hand painted, chipped–

the string loosening,

growing slack.

Sometimes my grip slips.

I’m tired.

Bones

Today is a bone sinking day.

Exhausted mourning losses

that aren’t happening.

Creeping tide hits;

a sudden surge and slam.

Cracks in salt coated heart

don’t cut density.

Heavy dropping anchor

bobbing hope, teasing air–

Can I see you from the

ocean floor?

What am I supposed to do

when hope won’t drown?

When the rope won’t cut

through?