maps

i have never left this place. 
sitting on the front stoop 
looking through 
grass and scrub 
out over escarpment 
framed by ashen skies
soundtracked 
by a roiling lake ontario. 
i have never left this place. 
feeling the roughened 
cliff top grasses perched
imperiously over temperamental
waters. 
i have never left this place. 
entreating the sparse
indifferent cirrus wisps 
passing over 
flitting cliff swallows- 
where do they go during dark seasons? 
i have never left this place. 
and i wonder when memories like this
fall away, where do they land? 
i have never left this place. 
still, 
messages 
from the person
i left behind 
float to shore.  

grip

i like poetry
that overflows you
without soaking
the page.
poetry that wobbles
your hand enough
to blur words.
poetry that makes you
look away first,
dares you
to turn the page
to escape
its gaze.