Never Gone…

That was no gentle love

it hurt me

i keep thinking I gotta forget you

but you tore me inside

you're never gone

you're my cry without echo

a dark love without dawn

i can't forget you

you tore me inside

it's never gone

spent a year without rainbows

couldn't make you come true

you're a song inside

i can't unsing you

you're a bleeding sunset fading

you took something of mine

how can i forget you

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Mature oaks already wear the rusty signs of autumn -- their leaves drying while younger bursts of green cling to summer's emerald and jade. 

She lingers a few minutes less each day. Cooling nights push her warmth away. I love her and I'll miss her. Seasons change.

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Of things I remember for no reason at all

I saw you dancing with her

something broke inside

i should have said i love you

and i do

i do

tell me why my heart breaks

over you

i used to crave your laughter

i still do

were you really with me

or passing through

i think i really loved you

what if i still do

i still do

tell me, are you happy

with someone new

i craved your arms around me

did you really love me

i wish i knew

wish i knew

i caught fire when you kissed me

were you just passing through

tell me that you're happy

but i'm not through

loving you

why does my world break

why does the rain come

when i remember you

now i've got this heartache

tell me why my heart breaks

don't tell me that you're happy

are you happy

i love you

i love you

bye bye

Summer's yawning August days are slowing

the rhythms have snagged

blooming is dying 

daying is nighting

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Just a glimpse

The pen must have shook in his old hands. 

In a coffee shop on an unremarkable Monday was a flyer folded and forgotten on a chair. Between coupons for free home security and a community church were cursive words: did you know that I am a very poor man? I didn't see my family, my kids.

Where did he go? Did anyone care or know the old man reading a flyer with a pen in his hand?

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I don't have much tonight

I am tired as hell

been watching the summer burn out 

dead leaves falling

it goes like that

life and then nothing

laughter to silence

bright pink blooms to black

but we get it all back

this will happen again

it goes like that

just a storm

Pretty faces in the dirt

yellow petals shorn

sky above whipping wild

suddenly a thunder storm tore everything from August

cracking supple limbs

bees still sleep in the bouquet

Alone on the bay on a sallow November day I roamed the sand and stones. I returned to the rutted driveway and shaggy red rug in a cottage over the dunes, lit a fire and waited for the rent to run out.

You're going to get rid of that car, right? the landlord had asked.

Yes.

You've only got a couple more days.

She was a brisk slap of perfume and gray hair. 

I would slip her tarnished house key beneath the window and drive that green unregistered Dart to Southampton's landfill. Its gates were locked on a Sunday, and I walked away.

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Nothing is prettier than Long Island, I told him. Just wait until all the people leave and the beaches -- knotted tight all summer with towels and canvas chairs -- can finally breathe. Wait until the wealthy silhouettes stop clogging the sunset. Wait until you're the only one on the narrow road tracing a thin shoreline,  driving over drifts of sand. Through gaps in the scrub rosa rugosa a warm sunset skips. Wait until the pavement ends and wild dune grass sways. Scramble toward the surf and stand below seagulls bouncing on a current over the endless sea.

August's cool nights 

The moon sits strangely in August's cool nights

its orange slice over shadows fading at dawn

summer is leaving

she is less by the day

her sunsets screaming 

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I wanted to make more of summer's end, as if she knew her long, humid days were dwindling. Her sandcastles were crumbling. But she is just like the moon, the tide, the dawn, the night. She is here and gone -- a breeze, a rain storm, a butterfly.

Maybe I will have a little party here to finish the holiday booze and beer forgotten and dusty, and say goodbye.

He tossed the newspaper next to his beer.

Nice paper, I said.

Don't make fun, he said. 

I am not making fun of it.

My wife died, he said. She was 44. Waving the paper, he said, she's in here. Cancer, he said. It came and went and when it came back this time, we knew. She was so sick at the end.

I later found her on page three.

He asked, don't you ever wonder why people come in here?

Sometimes it's obvious, I said. But you just come in on Thursdays for a couple of beers.

She was so sick, he said. I sometimes needed a beer and an hour or two.

How are you? I asked.

He tapped on the paper beside his glass. 

He said she went quickly at the end, but spent the last year on vacations, going places, She had a good life, but only half.

He walked out with the paper in his hand. The door thumped shut behind him. 

I'll be sad forever over this.

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I didn't want to think about the sky or the time flying by above me. I was sad like a sunset. I was waiting for rain. The storm clouds were coming. I heard far-away thunder again, then the dusk and the dark.

It Doesn't Mean Much

I couldn't reach you

under a dying orange sky

ochre and rust and fire and gone

When I saw your laughter, her hair in your hands

I remembered one summer night with $40 bucks on loan 

jamming the jukebox and drinking

they say, you shouldn't drink alone

But it doesn't mean much anymore

anything you said

you won't find me 

under a dying orange sky

beneath untouchable stars alone

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Just Something He Said

We were talking about unbearable fame

we were talking about musicians

He asked me, how do you sing?

You open your mouth and let your heart out. 

He smiled at me.

simple words are fine

I'll just sit here dreaming

that I'm in love with you

August's flowers blooming

full moon hanging high

i don't know where I'm going

i'm a rain storm passing by

I sat beside the summer

never asked his name

in his heart he pushed the sun aloft

i should have held his hand

the days are warm but shortening

will he take me with him

where love marks up the sand

perfect impressions on a beach at night

he never held my hand

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