The Price

He didn't want to go. 

Her face,

a ghost's shadow

in the windowpane

pouring grief

through the rain . . . 

Should he remain? 

One last look --

his eyes ached --

or did they burn? 

Was fidelity really

too much

to learn?

Heart's String

My heart drags behind me

like an old tin can

attached to a string

that I hold in my hand.  

My string and I

(I'm not ashamed to say)

hold fast to each other

when love goes away. 

Empty Hands

Mirages in the desert

are they,

ghostly apparitions

beckoning

smiling

fading

as you --

threadbare, thirsty, hungry --

approach.