An empty room jostling with space,
lit by the city and the stars.
Brubeck and his quartet taking five
minutes of contemplation,
thoughts freeing thoughts
to construct using constraints.
Fingers glinting under moonlight
like your bones against darkness,
solace rewriting time signatures
from metronome interiors.
Midnight transcended,
smiles escape windows
to become light pollution.
Walls will reverberate
emotions singing in the shower.
Silence returns as a lover,
whispering sweet nothings,
listening to how
you are static.


Time is a train I keep missing, my
ears plugged into interstellar nadir,
waiting for any radio signal, waiting
for music not my own, someone
out there to collect me to find me
in a universe of abandoned cities filled
with bartending algorithms to serve
beers and not people. Now I have a glass
of poison that warms skin and toys with
hearts, its froth glittering like civilizations –
Even if we too stopped blinking surely machines
will evolve to pilot a train to send me anywhere
but home and warm bodies, and time will tell
everything we don’t have the answers for, like
when will love be a star that isn’t so far away.

For a Lover in Andromeda to Parse

I am in the ice, leaning against Ray Charles’
piano. The keys are monochrome and sharp,
within them a vacuum I must cross to
allow you to hear his fingers, the ones that
help me forget loneliness. He died before Voyager 1
found her courage to enter termination shock;
I told her that it was okay, your memory of Earth
golden among elder stars that have forgotten their
records. Like them, I have thrashed papyri to vinyls
to DNA storages to unlearn love, just to hear your
pulsar in my direction, a dense heartbeat in static.
Billions of years in songs of our destined galaxies,
but this coma eclipses my instruments to see the
creases of your slumber in the fabric of space-time.
Love is the entire Universe between pixels, where
i’ll miss you by millions of light years, just to find myself.