Gazing at iridescent coals
 we remember at leisure
 the wet logs we used then jettisoned,
 the dry ones we trucked too many of,
 the rolled magazines the fire choked on,
 the lighter fluid the flames absorbed as quick as we poured,
 the ineffectual pop of the lighter sacrificed to the pile.
When we placed
 leaf next to leaf,
 stick over leaves,
 stick next to stick,
 log over sticks,
 log next to log,
 tending over logs,
we had s’mores for a time,
 tending fire.

Little boy: patience,
 or, at least let yourself be.
You don’t see the angels loving you,
 the humble intricacies of your snowflake,
 the mountain you pirouette from.
I admonish you: love yourself,
 still, only if it be thine will,
 lest you deprive the least of your lovers
 of a tittle of your jot.
Nurture yourself, breathe, grow,
 should it suit you.
The bright Devil burns, still not yet God.

It hurts my feelings,
this lump of heart and soul,
eons in the making,
gathering together my humanity
into something presentable
only to have you taking it
 with a grain of salt,
 being skeptical, doubting,
 and awaiting proof.

I withdraw to my hearth
 confident all have fires within,
 this public thing notwithstanding.

A sobering realization
to hear “enough” from my own lips
once so desirous to devour
a guilty swallow of enchantment
you so easily weave:
intricate and vast
— beyond what I can see —
interconnected waves, ringing, ringing,
washing over, flooding me.

To have you see me
turn my gaze from your majesty:
I can't bear to witness it.

Then, to live on remembering
I could not contain your beauty,
could not contain,
for an instant in my memory,
the mellifluous image you constantly
 alight upon the world:

my sorrow my mirror reflects darkly.

My belly is full of beauty:
full, only with a meager portion
 of your infinity.

Have I done anything?

Those troubled nights
 I could not sleep
 I fretted away in anguish
 while my jackass soul refused to drink.

I could have embraced them as their lover,
 conversed with them about my secret life
 over a midnight snack,
 and gone out and taken in the stars,
 even unto the dawn.

A Dracula is never a cure for a headache.
At times, I need some beautiful soul
 to drive a wooden stake through my heart
 to get the point.

Oh, mama, you laugh at me too much
 with your knowing smile.
What have I got myself into this time?
Regard as little tears and snot rubbed all over my sleeve,
 as if the ripping of my subject from my little hand
  was all just a bad dream.
With loving eyes you take me all in
 and send me out to recess again.

Nothing worthwhile ever gets done.
When it’s finished, where’s the fun?
For whom do you want to make this past?
Aye, for them with whom we hope we’ll last.

I’ve tucked my worries into bed —
their toddler eyelids chasing night visions —
tucked in, with folded blankets, creased
both cat and mouse;
I’ve blown out the candles as,
with silent footfall,
I hushed each room
and let moonlight in.
I’ve folded the blankets over my chest,
thanked each cricket in their lullaby chorus,
thanked each star in its twinkling.
I’m not the first to breathe in thankfulness.