Joy

The joy I felt when you bent your warm neck on mine
in the curvy aftermath of beige pillows happily tossed,
and your sweet deep snore.

It's the only joy I will ever need.

Draft of a Poem not Written

When the window broke with a wide teal shatter,
a lattice pine painted in this world, but strained,
burst into a wet torrent. Hurricanes arising matter
when, unexpectedly, a blue frame is broken. Rains

misunderstood wash away squares looping green,
but yellow bleaching on a toothy tin frame, swells
when the weather turns drier. A sneaky desk seen
as elder mahogany had no shallow bluish inkwells

but two creaky drawers. We ran ourselves silly
in a shallow concrete bowl near the graveyard
in anti-gravity glee, slipping on the moss willy-
nil in green defiance of the dead. Sanctus hard

blew when a storm came and left with cool grey-
ozone in my nostrils flared, a sparrow flew away.