split ends of long hair

i've been craving for days some thoughtful

time with books and paper and coffee -

to scribble down the poem from friday

night that got lost in those few frame

moments before sleep as the evening's

wine swirls into my ears, convincing me

i'll remember the line of verse tomorrow

in the bright morning light and by that

time it's lost, gone forever in dreamland,

hardly remembered, not enough for even

half a sentence. something about her

beautiful, sad eyes the way i saw them

on her, her sitting curled up in a loosened

men's shirt, talking, putting her hair

behind her ear.

now i'm sitting here being interrupted

by an angel who keeps asking me

"did you try?" and my lack of bravery

keeps my mouth silent, i can't say

no, it hurts, so i stare at her and she

knows what i can't speak. writing and

music and acting, she hits all the nails

on the head, giving me all this free

advice but most of all exposing myself

to myself, the things i've already known.

sitting down to coffee only moments

before engaging me in conversation,

then rising halfway through it and

carrying herself out at the close, as

if coming just to talk to me.

"you should write a novel," she says.

"yes," i says.

"if something is supposed to happen,

it will," he says. my father on the

phone today. and i don't know what

it all means, or if it means anything

at all. so i come home, to an empty

house and whisper things to myself

and try to search in my ears for all

the lost poems that slip as i sleep,

hoping someday they'll all come

back to me. i think about her

beautiful, sad eyes and concentrate

on her image and shape and the

way i felt happy. the way his chin

and smile and eyes and hair are all

new again. and how the porch

felt old again. and the more i think

the more i'm afraid i'll lose it all

as if just to scribe something makes

it all real and without words on the

page, it feels as if it never happened.