The laser pulses in ps, picoseconds

She told me.  Do you know

How long that is?

I told her

It is the distance it

Takes for two

Come for soy in their espresso

To walk and talk

In a paradise lost

And for him to

Regard a twirl of a curl

In a mane of awesomeness

Belonging to a girl

Truly fair enough for

Regarding

In pulses of ps, precious seconds

Worth an eternity of sleep

At The Cliff

So I remember waking at the edge

The edge of the part I gave

Or the edge of the part you took

The part you took across this span

I long for it

Because it was once me and

It once grew in me or bloomed in me

In the spot I didn’t even know was hollow

I holler

What can I offer

What can I give

The Cliff is mute

I hear it, it calls to me

Certainty awaits

Somewhere

At the bottom of that emptiness

Here at your edge, I dream of you

I dream until I can no longer dream

And I ready myself

The thrown unthrown by the Cliff

I cry

Send forth your finality

Topple this heart

From your stoic skirt

Till it plunge and

Receive your rocky resolution

Lock away this danger

Banish the science of edges

For their potential is dark, unseen and unnamed

I am not a winged thing that

Must throw itself into the rift

Over and Over and Over and Over

I stare down at that gulf and

Cannot pretend I am not at the edge in

Order to be in the world

My soar is sore

My call is

What can I offer

What can I give

The Cliff is mute

…so I listened and

It gave what it possessed

As a dust of snow from a crow and

I awoke on the other side of the Cliff

Or the Cliff beyond or the Cliff beyond or the Cliff beyond or the Cliff beyond

And stand by the edge

Cast my ward and call

What can I offer

What can I give

For the Cliff is mute

I wake and spend my day
In your moonlight, dreaming
Of ways to romance, your
Sleepless heart, clear as the
Sun's face, ever abides
For ways to eclipse me

You float like a snowflake
Light, white, pure, in a purl
A mote of molten core
Silver ash in a swirl
To dote as tarpon, twirls
Of smote, glance after glance

A cat in the grass, you
Lure through hair hid lucent
Eyes, glands on full display
My decay will not feed
Your frail roots, for I am
Predator and not prey

The Morning Mare

You shimmer in the mist
Haloed in golden light
Mane'd neck bent to kiss
The cool sweet dew of night
Pricked ears catch wished
For sounds of dawn's delight

Magic in a smile
Lingers like faint, fairy dust
A fragrance divine.

Cling to that icy branch
Bluebird, for it is real
And not dreamt.  All is cold
And gone is your family.
The world will not repent.

The heart of this old house
Is heard in the tick-tock
Of the mantle clock, as
The faucet weeps feelings
That flood forgotten years
In drips of a hearth's tears

I felt a certain need
To name your perfection
A watercolor, ground
With Spinoza's tears, hung
By rage to extol or
Stay an itch etched dolor