Skyscrapers:

I've built
skyscrapers

monuments
of glass
and steel

every line
planned
and sculpted
expertly

born of my
intellect
my craftsmanship
my own two hands

I've built
cities
and gardens
summer cottages
and schools

always seeing
the end
from the beginning

but I cannot
hold your image
in my mind
long enough
to see you clearly

to find you

to build
a bridge
between us

Hypotheticals:

I collect
hypotheticals
like children collect
rocks

it never
mattering
exactly what
each stone
is
only what
it might be
if it were anything
other than a pebble
sitting in an old
shoebox

yet
my collection
is not kept
by the naivety
and wonder
of youth
but
by fear

knowing that
if I were ever to find
something real
the remainder
of my collection
would be immediately
rendered worthless

the value
of the collection
only appreciating
so long as it
remains
entirely imaginary

The Wall:

the wall

was never

the point

each stone

set

to keep

the gate

a gate

to keep

the garden

a garden

Meaning:

meaning
oozes
from
the death
gripped
fist
of life
as it
squeezes
the universe
senseless

Tim and the Walk Home:

Tim stands as still as he can
while an exceptionally long gust
of late February wind
tries insistently to slide him
shoes skidding along the sidewalk
back towards the school

his hair flailing madly in the torrent
Tim turns his face to the side
holding his breath as long as he can
unable to breath, anyway
as the air rushes past his mouth
and his nose
so quickly that he is unable to pull
any stray molecules into his lungs

Tim wonders briefly
if this is what death is like
only to be immediately interrupted
by assorted debris pummeling his face
tiny bits of dirt, twigs, and months old leaves
assaulting him
launched as though by nature's own blunderbuss

Tim pushes one foot forward
his leg forcing its way through the wind
like the hull of an icebreaker
cutting a path through ancient sea ice

as Tim picks up his trailing foot
to take another step
the wind almost gets the better
of his balance
Tim, caught off guard, finds himself
absorbed in this moment

his attention, fully committed to the wind
and his empty lungs
and the leaves
and the twigs
and the dirt
and his foot
and, with his last ounce of attention
his balance

in this moment
while Tim's six year old faculties
are unable to satisfy the full demand
that has been placed upon them

Tim finds himself

stealing breath from the wind hurrying past him
pressing forward into an unseen tide
willing his body not to yield to his barometric foe

the residual of reality
discarded by his, momentary
inattention

in this moment
Tim finds himself

resisting a chaos he cannot understand

and, then, as his foot reunites with the ground
Tim think-mutters something to himself
about the wind
with the exact sort of distain
that only a six year old can muster

and he finishes walking home
his hair still flailing madly

Trestles:

these words
as trestles

growing
as splinters
turn
to timbers

spreading
across
the terrain
and
ever
building
heavenward

their
crystalline
structure
supporting
a canopy
of seemingly
casual
reflection

a sea
of wooden
waves
rolling
out toward
the horizon

yet
in the
caverns
below the
canopy's
surface
there
is room
for us

beneath
the vaulted
ceilings

surrounded
by metaphor

room enough
for us

among these words

to build
a home

Torn:

a war wages

inside each of us

as we are torn

between

who we ought

to be

Tim and the Math Class:

Tim stares idly
at the back
of Allison's head

while Mrs. Kemper
drones on about
arithmetic

the chalk in Mrs. Kemper's
hand scratching and squeaking
as it dashes across
the blackboard

Tim is thinking about
something

but it isn't math

and it isn't the back
of Allison's head

while the syncopated
rhythm of the chalk
tapping and shuffling
across the blackboard
adds a layer of percussion
to his thoughts

today's lesson is on multiples
of four

tomorrow will be fives

Friday will be art

Tim likes art more than math
but he's better at math than art

Allison runs her hand
through her hair
just so

now Tim is thinking
about the back
of Allison's head

admiring the way
her auburn hair catches
the light drifting
through the window
absorbing the rays
and reflecting
the sun's grace

glimmering
with a myriad
of the subtlest
of hues

and, now, Tim is thinking
about the way her eyes
seem to shine like
sapphire stars
every time she smiles

unconcerned
that she has never
smiled at him

unaware
that in a few short years
he will find that
sort of thing
concerning

Mrs. Kemper hands out
the day's math assignment

now Tim is thinking
about multiples
of four

and threes

and twos

but not fives

Tim hasn't learned
his fives yet

A Reminder:

a string tied purposefully

around your finger

to remind you to forget