Yulan.

I'd rather it be a march then a walk
to the place where we would go
with the coming and going of each season.
I'd like nothing more than to get in my car
and finally set course.
Invade and impose.

I'd rather you admit it to it
and meet me half way
but how could I expect anything anymore
and how could I expect you to be anything less of predictable.

The Poet's House.

I hope
where ever I decide to go
is the place where I'll eventually decompose.
I hope it becomes something special to your kids
as they age.
I hope they bring their cigarettes here and loose women.
I hope they never think twice about what it is they do.
I hope you never find them here.
I attest, the creaking of my porch already
and that it'll prove how worthwhile a person ought to be
if they make themselves comfortable on it
after I had spent many evenings hoping and hoping
I'd make something worthwhile here.

I'm Quitting New York

I wish you wished nothing more
and that this thing we seem to "know" could make up its mind.
Cold feet and tired toes,
I'll keep my mouth closed shut
while I venture to some part of the south,
almost out of whatever boundaries have been made.
I think I'd walk around.

Midnight on a Row.

It's an ocean we're in,
though it seems that of a lake,
I beat against each wave, hoping.
Tied the anchor, though it rusted.
Met each rope, following a persistent knot.

But I kept it,
at each passing tide
to prove a point.
Couldn't put it to proper use,
after I cut it all up.

I could've grazed shore lines,
pressing my oar at the sides of rocks
keeping them,
on their toes,
so it goes.

The battle we swung on,
headfirst and sung it down.
I made it for you to keep.