The world is ending

I hear it from my window

I love you, good luck

I wrote another poem

Without me you would be completely alone

Or else that’s what you said

But with you I am alone

And it’s my favorite circumstance

It isn’t lonesome or lonely

It’s alone with perfect company 

We danced without meaning

For an hour or two

Nothing barrier in between

Nothing to slow us down

I fell into your embrace

I closed my eyes

And wasted my dreams

On you

We exchanged kisses goodbye

But I keep dancing with strangers

Hoping that I fall down

venula:

I missed you all of October,
November, and now the first
four days of December. You
are too precious to forget,
though not too calus to regret.

I remember your sadness,
and how often you neglected
to acknowledge all your
madness, and the next

twenty seven days will pass
in a haze, but like you they
will disappear like any other 
short lived phase. 

I wrote a poem

I need the trees to stop following me
and the field mice to quit organizing my socks
and the snakes and the lizards

to stop
plucking out my eyelashes

one by one

but the tadpoles admire the frogs

that tie my shoes

and the baby birds

are fed on my shoulders
and the butterflies brush my hair
and I am carried

by two million ants
give or take
I am only as alive

as the birds flying by my feet,

and the roaches crawling around my head

the komodo  dragons lay in my way
and I eat the beetles around on the floor
that block my teeth from picking up the dust

and dirt

and hair

and toe nail clippings

that stand in the way

while I am crawling on the floor

with my last effort,

shins detached,

to make my way to you.