Autumn’s Bed

Aspens, maples

golds, crimsons 

raked, piled.

BFM

Smearing

Our pyroclastic remains litter our once wannabe house. 

The first great dream is always a bruising lie, leaving one feeling cornered. 

Dipping our index and middle fingers into liniment jars, 
smearing balm like war paint, with an ash chaser.

We ready for something smaller, a one bedroom apartment, apart. 

BFM

Four parts

In one part of my brain a man wearing a tweed jacket rides a motorcycle round and round a Tudor house; in another, a ten year old child counts to ten looking for the perfect word to describe the lasting effects of an alligator taking his ten toes, three brothers and whoring mother back to the swamp to start a new life without him; in a third part there’s a spike so I laugh when I should cry and cry when I should laugh. In the fourth part is a corridor banked with windows overlooking fatty tissue that insists there is an I in there.

B.F.M.

Best Wishes

I wish you could see me. Now.

But you never did, I wasn’t metric enough;

too weighty on the air side.

B.F.M.

Walking Blackett’s Ridge

The shiny fleck of what is, 

radiant, 

until the sun shifts, 

then it dulls behind dusk.

B.F.M

Haunting

When you’ve grown accustomed to spring water springing between polished rocks, it’s haunting when its cadence diminishes to a drip, drip, drip, stop.

B.F.M.