For Isabel tonight

there you are
in the moments

we refuse to avoid
there you are
at the start of
the foment, the noise
explaining to me
the need for a roar
there you are
when I call blindly
from a cell in my heart
there you are
in the darkness
there you are at the start
creep up on me

I don’t mind
we had that kind
of friendship
the ghosts still in transit
are jealous of us
there you are
in the night of
my simmering question
no answers you say
only direction
there you are
when I flounder
in boots still too tight
through dark underbrush
there you are in the light

Sir Shadow

Sir shadow, you drunk
Sir Shadow, you mean
and crazy man
Sir Shadow, you hopeless shoe lacer
you angry defacer
Sir Shadow of mine
you black valentine
swing from the wing with a ghosty divine
Sir Shadow, you hopeless
reminder of loss
comic trickster of heaven
Byzantium’s loss is
a place where nothing of import
gives into dull hymns
or nudged the sweet need of sorts
Sir Shadow, it’s now

in the cinnamon dark

when I drink to the owl

to the falcon, the lark

and the music still hovers

like a family of sorts

Sir Shadow, the sum of 

my disparate parts

gets childy and needy and

begs for the stars

the  way to lace upward

the wayfaring boot

send me on to the place

and dig me my root