Golden Cold Front

Tripping over shallow pores,
my eyes find no purchase
in their attempt to digest
every aspect of your face

Freckles of flame, resting
atop lakes of gold
like sun borne lily pads.

With a final leap, the eyes breach
your cheekbone horizon
only to freeze
at the glacial tides
pouring forth, forward
"you may leave now."

Chipping away
at the frost in my joints,
I do as told
too cold to wonder
how such separate states
live just a nose bridge away.

Comprehension escapes
all but Aphrodite herself.


Prepping the liquid embezzlement

entranced by the journey

of air to sand to stone.

The lakes of you, feeling a presence,

making it a point

to break apart my favorite boulder.


An oasis only exists

for those in need of sustenance.


you stand empty

surrounded by empty

a droplet sharing no notable meaning

beyond, “continue”.



some nights

I glide.


I think I’m in the middle of one of those nights.