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Memory Bird

I’ve got to get so far past you the birds run out of breath.

I need to push you to the utmost of unimportants that the dust turns to dirt.

I toss filed forgotten newspaper clippings from stories told that are not here or there or where

My heart resides today.

I toss them,

Yet, find them,

Hobbling in my chest when the trash goes to the curb.

What makes the memories stay,

What makes them, be,

Stuck on the wings of breathless pigeon masquerading as doves,

Free in their flight through dusty olives groves of romantic storytellers?

What makes this teller of tales, 

Stay? 

What makes this memory, stay,

When all others 

Flitter away?

Go with him, memory bird.

Go with him, dust mites on papered tales.

Take your dirty newspaper to build a musty nest and go so far past me

You run out of breath. 

 You Take the color from the Sky

 Will you drop the sun into the sea,

Let it fall from your arms into water?

Yellow light you gather as wheat, and

paint it into corners, the warmth

Crust around the dust, packs

Into the angles of wood.

Will you let the sun be dipped into the ocean,

Out of your arms like cords of wood

Released without care, rolling across docks

Slithering into the pools of aquamarine.

It chilled the going,

it crushed the goodbye

The crushing, chilling, going, goodbye,

Dropped the sun into the sea

Wiped the yellow light from the landscape

Plunged the red heart into dark.

Plunged the red heart

Plunged the red heart into the sea.