What passes between us
is a blade – cold, sharp metal
swinging at top speed,
thinly slicing
what remains
of love.

Exposed
cross-sections
of pulsing pain reunite
our souls in a shared scream.
Suffering in separate space, we
know the other’s sorrow


What presses down upon us
is a misty sky that seeks out
ground of our hearts,
hollowed, harvested.
Purple passions
mashed like

ripened grapes
and transformed into
Merlot you pour to drink away
misery, wine-colored inspiration
from which I squeeze yet another
gypsy dance remembrance of you.


What springs up out of nothing
are starry lights, silver sparkling
residue of love that would
convince me to allow
a million rotations
of the blade,

to lay down
as sky presses down
and produces drink
from latest evidence of love
that replicates itself. Stars
are falling in me again.