old poems 

she said, 

go read this poet 

and that one 

and maybe the other one 

over there 

blow off the dust 

and crack the old pages

 

i follow footprints 

atop floorboards 

went up old stairs 

pull the string 

that ignites an exposed bulb 

the room 

bright and dim 

at the same time

 

shadows move 

and i wait 

perhaps spring will 

share a better story 

perhaps my lies 

will not linger as long

 

i breathe in the smell 

of dirt and mold 

and old words that rot 

between pages 

i read this poet 

and that poet 

and the other one 

over there

 

the door handle rattles 

but when i check 

down the hall 

nothing lingers 

except  

a cold damp breeze dancing 

through  

open windows 

# # #

come 

they come in spirts 

across fresh linen, 

faster and faster, 

each one unique, 

each original 

but anchored  

in tithing memory.

 

some days they come 

quick, without reflection, 

consideration, or spell check.

 

some days they hide 

deep in the flesh, timid  

and shy, flaccid and cold. 

no mouth to breathe 

life onto a shriveled 

vessel.

 

and some days they don’t 

come 

at all. 

it is not worth the effort, 

not even a pill could 

get you to where 

you want to be.

 

but when they 

come 

fluid and sloppy 

across the page, 

swimming with 

life, there is  

nothing better. 

when they  

come.