My Writing

Blue, Cool Blue


Might I

run my cautious finger

along happy bruises,

golden-blue and mottled green moss

or slide sheer curtains over

cool purple fog?

My heart bleeds

gushes of white,

as I drift into your blue haze.

Might I

curl my hand 

around your sweet pink

speckles of sugar,

like poking my finger

into the purple clouds above,

swirl it around like cotton candy,

bring a fluffy piece to my lips,

to taste,

just a little taste

before it fizzles away?


Down your face stream

ashen tears,

precise splatters of blood,

blushing across the cruel skin

of the solitary pine

of your nose.

Slopes of fuzzy green

stubble, burning

heavenly magma

in shadows over

me. Hot blushes

over my naked skin.

I will see you again

and again,



I am naked and you are heavenly,

cold and hot and ashen and cruel.

You cast red shadows,

my skin burns, burns, burns blue.

Gone is the stubble

of moss over earthly slopes.

I am one pine tree



skinless and pink.

I am naked,

I’ve fallen

from forests in heaven.

You were my fire;

I am ash.


There is a woman in the mountains

who closes grey stone eyes,

who purses cracked lips

and reclines upon a narrow throne.

There is a woman

who lifts her heavy arm

and points, imagining

a line connecting the earth

to the sky.

There is a woman 

who bares a naked leg

thinking that if she just reaches

a little farther,


a little longer,

maybe then, her half-face

will find its match.

But now, she is sleepy

and she is too heavy

to keep her eyes open.



cool blue, blue

in its purest, sapphire form

is the true sun, I think.

If the sun were blue,

it would blend

into the sky and

never be seen again.


The cold stone is warm today; 

I run my hand along the ice,

my face mirrored in its sheer surface.

My reflection is a lady,

reclining upside-down,

hair dangling in brown wisps 

leaves caught in tangles.

I see myself in my reflection’s eyes;

I wonder, does infinity blush?

She must know how to wake

the sleeping giantess,

how to pry 

those eyes open,

knows just which words

to pray.

But I’ve walked the frozen corridors

of the underworld

and found nothing of use,


nothing of us.


One night I shock myself

by finding an elf 

sticking its pointed nose

where it does not belong.


I climb over a mottled moon,

freckles dotting your surface.

Every inch of you

is a creature, new to me,

I float, I fly

in soft S’s, hiding,

the strain of a hand over a mouth.

Quiet, my dragon:


We are silence,

we are danger.


An eagle sails through swollen clouds,

scratching scars into the sky’s frozen face.

If we reach, our fingers

will trace pools of dark ink

across the twisted cotton.

Should we doom ourselves

to the shadows, or

run screaming into the night?

The cracks in the smoke twist us,

I am frozen, frozen 

with her face in grotesque laughter.

Do you feel the tug

of the fire;

can you find the shape of butterflies

gathering, marching

in whispers?


You turn away

beneath dying grass and

browning brick.

Leaves swerve in tangled vines,

tilt and clutch at our stiff faces.

You walk away, 

Giving me no last gasp

or dying breath.

Your hands are in your pockets, 

your mouth open;

this is how I know you can breathe.

You breathe fire, you breathe destruction,

you’ve wrought ruin upon me.

Ash to ash,

dust to dust,

and all return to the earth again,

as all once was,

all will be,

and here I am,

wondering how a man unreal,

merely a will-’o-the-wisp,

holds me on the tip of his finger

and sends me flying with a short breath.

I turn away

because what else is there to do?


to dust 

to earth 

to kindling

and again,


I am aflame.

Photo by Alex Shutin on Unsplash