The Death Of Aaron James

cello is a thick, heavy syllable
crying against the shoulder of
a thin woman,

a road of auburn hair trailing down her
spine. She understands value.

Prose is never numb,
it spans across nerves
playing emotions with finger

tips of red wood.
You brought Lydia to me
at twenty-five,
she dripped into my sleep
and led me
on a journey.

For you, she was a symptom of
something incurable. She opened my throat,
expanding me and you

The cello smiles with wide fingers,
thick like its soul.
Lydia takes me on a piano ride
in red wood snow where prose
grows and grows and grows.

My Tasteless Tongue

My tasteless tongue.
I have not ate a loss like
this before.

Too tough to chew,
too rough to swallow;

a full, red cannon shot,
due side….

and I trickle,
fickle little

despair, first,
then gratitude.

Grace comes with poisonous tips, at times,
with faint cucumber breeze, at others,
but always honest!

My tongue has died with
sour grief, with
acidic injury, a loss I have not
taste before

now. I want