Friday, March 10, 2017


Some mornings, I wish I
could stay with you, dabbing
to sooth

your forehead
with a damp cerulean cloth
until every last hope

in your fiery mind
is gone.
A cure

for those times when
there isn't
supposed to be one;

for those days,
which are

when the universe
of music
you dreamed the night before was

so pure,
a perfect mix

of warm
tender pain
and cool

composed loneliness—that
not just you,
or me either, but

all of us
would be in some
serious trouble

if you ever
remembered—a single
blue note of it.