Regretfully yours,

The note read, 

“I’m sorry. 

I found 

your white sock 

tucked into a ball


underneath my bed

last night-

I had already 

thrown the mate


Schrodinger’s third space

just past witching hour.
not midnight like the stories say,
when yesterday breaks into tomorrow,
at 4am, the third space,
translucent slices of time
I’m driving.
the road a path

no alpha, no omega
the clock suspended

until time presses forward-
the possibility still exists
of you
lying beyond its end

the little things

just before daybreak
moonlight through the windowpane 

each vertebrae casts stark shadows
along the soft curve of your spine

you’ve turned away in your sleep


drifting in grey space 
where night crosses into dawn 

your lips on my neck


birch branch laden with ice

dips heavily to the ground

as the crow alights


A spent dandelion-
One wisp still clinging
to the bald-headed stalk.
I blow again, and a third time…
before dropping it as I walk away.

always my little boy

Ancient black sharpie scribbles
disrupt the shine
of my old oak table.
I smile,
remembering you then.

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