Talk With The Holy From Out The Window

Soft and fully melodic,
thorough and methodic,
intention's best friend

is music that comes Early November,
with feelings you recant if you remember,
and a step back to renege so you can start over

in the same lessons where you learn the same things
and revere yourself as your lone reference.
Maybe once will come right and give you blessed credit.

And as cycles circle, masquerading singing,
"I know what I'm doing, I know what is lingering,
we've been here before, so go on, stop your cringing,"

you let out a breath that says back,
"Watch the things around me, at the nape of my neck,
so I can trust what I haven't with my eyes still straight ahead,

and I will do the heavy lifting,
all the wounds and what they're bringing,
take them with me so if I need to look I can still be moving."

Autumn Blankets

I used to love the sound of silence,
but now it worries me.
I feel as though I want to enjoy it,
but there's something I can't hear through its sanctity.
Something holds me back,
it wants me to listen twice as hard and do just as much,
and it never gets specific, just leaves me to figure out "stuff."
So come three weeks through September
comes the still, chilled air as stuff ends all over,
some I'd like to forget and some I can't remember.
And I'll worry about cold ankles, time, and other things that fly
as I walk faster through river wind than I do my mind.
And my pockets will hold my hands closely, hoping I get one thing right:
If I can't be a saint, if martyrs never last this long,
maybe I'll start over too, knowing my mistakes
so I can blanket my choices
like the autumn leaves do concrete.