In pencil the words seem so tired
A fountain jokes with the paintings on the wall
In Montana, the light is all but a postcard
Meadows upon meadows of concrete, gently mocking the grass
It all comes to a triangle—protracted with elevator shoes
Dusk, the infants are all tucked in twice
Wrong it seems to be wishing for somewhere else
We all do it, sensationalizing our births
If your birth was not filmed, she said, then you were never born.
I believed her, and went on living an invisible life
Pencil, I wish you were here right now, with me. Sometimes
I wish you were never born; I live in your shadow. I like things to be erased too.
The paintings, could not succeed after you
Glancing flowers turn to hand-pumping fires
The thoughts fade out and scrawled in lead
like the break at the side of your hand.
Author Discusses Poems