Claxton Mahaley

She doesn't know he's a text

Leftover apple blossoms;

Fields turned away.

Never think to feel the sun

Because it never goes away.

It isn’t ash, but ruin;

Decay several feet deep.

There is no official site of engagement

Just the acrid taste.

She thinks something different now

And she’s never here alone,

But what it takes to be

Is not the same anymore.

Bouquet

There were whirs and whistles

And shoes with delicate little bows

And I can remember distinctly

That someone had the most

Wonderful apple and its fragrance

Filled -- became -- the air.

But that was before, but

Certainly a part of,

The magic when I saw her

Ringlets and down-turned eyes

Was it really in black and white?

Maybe it was a pose. Was I

Painting you? Hands drawn

Together, carelessly clasping a

Bouquet of wildflowers and

Looking over your right shoulder

Winds

A different time finds us

Again I think of you.

There was something there

Something tangible, sweet.

Beverly Beach

You cannot say that you weren't having fun, it was written in your eyes, in your red cheeks and runny nose.

They say this and that about so many things.

Maybe this place is haunted but the ghosts look just like us.

I don't think that I would have noticed had I not of met

myself (starred into the eyes of me as I would have been

at age 10 or 11). The encounter was long in its shortness --

an eternity in an instant. And then he went off to ride the

trails and I to contemplate lost time.

1/23

There was rain today --

Different season, same leaves.

But the walk was comforting

near the sea.

Saturday, May 12, 2007 at 01:08 PM

rock moans gorgeous

sleep beneath me