Carriagerun
Charlie’s on the couch,
ears half-up like he’s mid-thought.
Jadie’s at the door,
guarding the house from falling leaves.
They know I’m not writing for the money.
They know I’m not writing for peace.
They know I’m not even sure why I’m writing—
but we don’t care.
They watch me the way priests watch sinners:
with disappointment,
but also a little hope.
I think they expect something good to come from it.
Maybe a walk.
Maybe a poem that doesn’t end
with someone dying,
or a man talking to his ghosts.
But I can only give them
the sound of fingers
trying to find
whatever’s left
worth saying.
Hangstones
Everything I’ve lost
keeps blooming somewhere.
I no longer ask where.
Everything I’ve touched
left a mark—
not always visible,
but the dust remembers.
Everything I’ve seen
has gone on seeing.
A bird in flight,
a door left open.
They continue
without me.
Everything I’ve said
hangs in air
longer than I meant.
Some words soften.
Others
hang like stones.
Everything I’ve loved
still leans toward light.
Even what turned away
left warmth
in its absence.
Everything I’ve feared
has changed shape.
Most of it
looks like me,
only quieter.
And still —
everything I’ve lost
keeps blooming somewhere.
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