This poem was published by ROOM Magazine in vol. 34. 2, 2011

Cars careen past
sending flickering, projected shadows across the wall.
Diffident, they elongate and slide and then fix.
I sit next to you watching you sleep
soft, little and content –
I think of outlining the ribbed light on the wall in black ink –
to make it permanent.
The moving light has tone: preoccupation, innocence.

The wet, thinking city streets
lengthen the spaces between moments –
the rain throws melancholy down the drain; it mixes with
cigarette butts and brittle leaves.
I ache with the arbitrariness of it all –
with the layers of vulnerability and intent.
(We take off our lives and put on the lives we think we need).
The reel plays out its narrative –
the angst of email, the rushing noise of news,
the tangible fear,
the put-on ‘I don’t care-ness’.

I remembered bringing you to the beach
this past spring –
the wind – the  feeble greyness.
The dried seaweed
rustled like a fast-frame film –
nervously alive. 

You wake –
the room drains of watery distraction,
and as I pick you up,
heavy with sleep,
it’s as if I’m pulling a bucket from a well,
a branch from a moving river –
you’re all downiness, warm temples and soft-limbs –
and your small, gorgeous mouth searches –
for me.