Farewell, Fair Painter
Farewell, fair painter—
Our room is dim and bare
Where my portrait,
Painted with unfair beauty,
Intended
To comfort the night.
January 29, 2026
Tremble Before My Love
Tremble before my love.
What grips a wounded life
softens against balmy touch.
What withdraws from flame
hardens at the scent of you.
Green apples never soured
so sweetly at my bite.
Ripe flesh never split—
refreshing juice, quenched;
whittled core, so soon browned.
January 13, 2026
My Little Rage
My little rage, so neatly kept
within my bedside table drawer,
close to call and quick to come
when the roaring house sleeps
and leaves me, and I, alone—
January 13, 2026
To Rest in You
I did not come here to wish you good night,
when all my nights are choked with vengeful thoughts
and vivid memories so cruel
they keep me wet with winter sweat
or steam my summer sheets,
anticipating my homecoming eve.
January 13, 2026
Tonight in Haberdash
I did not come here to pick a fight with you,
but I’m ready with a fair right hook
to hook your nose or sand your eye,
so don’t even try—don’t even try—
I’ve lost to better men than you,
I’ve lost and conquered better men by far,
although I’d like to keep a closer hand tonight,
and so I say: I did not come for war.
January 13, 2026
Who Lives in the Pits of the Moon?
Listen: when I was a young boy and my mother
opened a pre-school so she could be near to us,
so she could learn to be a teacher,
to start a new life,
after my oldest friend,
my father,
decided he couldn’t live with us anymore—
January 13, 2026
Who Answers?
Who am I that write
This worthless little poem?
Who grips the pen and taps the time,
And does he tap alone?
January 13, 2026