Beautiful Gift

I was promised a beautiful gift,

but this means nothing to me. Perhaps if

the gift were guaranteed to attract

the bird-like attention of three-legged

squirrels, I would be more intrigued. I would

be that squirrel, pulled from my constant

scan for threat. Maybe the whole “you’ll soon get

a beautiful gift” deal has run its course.

I’ve been burned before. I’m not getting

any younger, but I’m intact, more or less.

I’ll show up with something that you haven’t 

seen before, something highly flammable.

The fire is beautiful, and then it’s gone,

its promise fulfilled, its meaning unclear.

The Kid Who Drank Paint

I knew a kid who would drink paint.

He would end up

in the ER and promise not to do it again,

but, of course, he did.

His parents had to move to a town

designed by the blind

for the blind, a place void of pigment

and cream.

I knew a kid who had a crush

on the steam

that sometimes rises from streets 

and a kid

who would throw her shoes at teachers,

but it’s the kid

who drank paint that I secretly admired.

Waves of Light Blanket the Snow

And they bend down to do so,

changing the horizon.

Particles hang in the evergreens

like toy parachutes.

Light is the expression of light,

the implementation and recognition

of all that is lit and maybe more.

On this, at least, we tend to agree.

There’s a travel advisory 

and an astronaut

and an old couch in the garage.

I imagine all this light 

a little stoned and lonely, 

a long way from home.