The bucket in the well
I cast it down and down again
And pulled it up and up and up
And saw it held there, like an antidote
A prayer pressed through dying lips
That couldn’t say, “Amen”

While drinking down in gulps
The worried sentences I wove
That moved around and ’round and ’round
And like a needle on a record does
I echoed your departing steps
Through this, an empty grove

And tracing, like a filament
That never found its place
There in between the in-between
The interstices that I fled
As if your soul was made of flight
And I was never keeping pace

But searching now with fingers worn
In tides of weeping sand
That echo further now and further now
Where tracks you never left
I focus on the light you radiate
And float upon the surface of an ocean made of you
And wonder if I’ll ever end up finding land



Around again in spirals now
With litanies like litter thrown
Where not for any moment made of triumph do we bow
To pauper kings and dying crones
Upon detritus covered thrones
Because we only stand as tall as circumstance allows

And so we set our palette thin
And worry for the paint we use
With brushes that we never touched and never will again
So canvases are left to lose
The portraits all bereft a muse
With signatures we craft of “Never lose, but never win”

Arrested by the view to be
Where, surely, stars are meant to grow
Our wrists are counting moments in a world we never see
And who we are, we fail to show
And why we hide, we never know
But hold our broken, hated masks and swear they set us free

But then there are so many days
And life is like a lost balloon
And here we are like children blinded by the golden rays
With fingers reaching for the moon
Where finding clouds would be a boon
But still, the road is dark and what we seek…it seems a million miles away


You said the sun was setting, no…
I say the sun was letting go
Of days where it was fretting, so
Goodnight, my dear, goodnight

You said the world was changing, yet…
I say the world is strained and set
In ways of heartless pain, so let
Me say, goodnight, my dear

You said the days were better, though…
I say the days are fettered, low,
In ways as dark as ever, so
Goodnight, my dear, goodnight

You said you’re there for me, and yet…
I say the words, but you forget
To care, it’s like we never met
Or said goodnight, my dear


You wonder if I’m finished
Or, at last, with will diminished
I have ceased

By thinking you’ll outplan me
It means you don’t understand me
In the least

So now, you wear a grimace
And perceive me as a blemish
To your peace

I’d still rather be buried
By the feelings that I carry
That’d be easier to bear than
Your release


I put my hand upon the door,
“I’m leaving now, there’s nothing more
To do or say
To you in ways
I haven’t said before.”

I open it by small degrees
But not with any sense of ease.
I try to stall,
I eye the wall,
I fumble with my keys.

I start to move in slow egress,
“I’m leaving now, for good, unless
You tell me wait,
Or hesitate,
Or silently suggest.”

I hear a word, or lack thereof;
I give the door a gentle shove
And so I stay,
And hope delay
Can turn this into love.


I don’t know how you took my heart
So easily, so casually
And took hold of my every thought
So simply and so gradually

I know it wasn’t something planned
Maliciously or callously
Or something that you hoped to end
So viciously in fallacy

I don’t know how I lost myself
So certainly and utterly
Or if I’ll ever get to tell
You honestly or subtly

It wasn’t till I found you there
So brilliantly and wonderfully
I realized just how much I care
For you and all you’ve done for me


Long upon a dreadful journey
Compass broken, head full of belief
Of a destination that would surely find him worthy
After this, the dead pull of deceit

Took from him the healing pieces
That he’d long spent sealing in his heart.
So, with hesitation, like a pain that never ceases
Did he walk, just reeling in the dark

For a semblance of connection
Else to find an emblem of a dream
Where his consternation didn’t mingle with perplexion –
Where he could remember how to lean.

Till, at last, he reached the ending
Callous, cut, and leached by road and sea
Held by revelations that were painful and upending:
He was not the hero he believed.