some stuff we keep, when leaving leaves
and bright birds circle small. i knew it then,
in all in all, watching frosty windows weep
while sunlit feathers slowly fall. 

some places grey, like winter mist that
hovers low and tells the heart to stay. like love
too strong, holds open long these feeble arms
that cannot take. some things lovely, like
late nights warm in hidden homes, the pearls
that form inside our fists.

some stuff we lose - when loss insists, 
curled spinning out. small notes that play
once alone, coins that clink and disappear.
stuff outside the circle. secrets to the grave.

and as keeping goes, i have done well
for a tiny thing, and massed much self
in the lower floors. with water, made rot
small floaters strung, and pieces of
those things forgot. along the way
each lonely lot
must gather dust
in even sheets

outside the wat of
dying dogs, a cold wind
always beats.

some shit we want 
on weathered streets. the
heat of your arms in 
true enclosure. kisses that 
make the future colder.
pothole bumps and 
bitten tongues. pissing
on the hard shoulder,
i picture a ladder with rusty
rungs

reaching. i'm older. there's a saying
i forget. some turning driven past,
a metaphor with cars.

passing headlights cast 
bright yellow bars, dark shadows sweep

i stare at the dot 
above the i. tonight
i shall not sleep. 

there is a measure of fairness
to life.
there is some stuff we keep.