my tapestry

you left footprints
all over
my tapestry.

it was handmade;
the only one
in the world.

i'm sorry
i left it
on the floor.

if i'd
hung it up
like you said,

maybe
it would still
be beautiful,

and maybe
you would still
be here.

by my fingertips

I hold you by
my fingertips
(but never in my hand);
and if sometimes
my finger slips
I hope you understand.

I keep you in
a paper cup
(with holes poked in the top);
and very seldom
pick you up
for fear that you will drop.

I set you on
a blade of grass
(so you can fly away);
and wonder while
the minutes pass
if I could make you stay.

I close my eyes
and let you leave
(I have to set you free);
but secretly
I still believe
that you'll come back to me.

My Minutes

My minutes - halved and thin and slight -
catch fire in the dead of night.
In an instant: flare, ignite,
forget the awful cost.

My minutes - ever darker, dimmer -
somehow shorter, somehow slimmer,
choke into a smoking simmer,
and suddenly
            are lost.