A Handful Of Tears

I lasted until the end of the driveway
Before I felt everything coming down.
I knew those notes were going to haunt me,
That every time they reached my ear,
I would remember you perfectly as you were.

Everything up until then was roses,
Another page of fiction brought to life.
But sadness comes with a single turn,
And with you gone now,
No trains or bridges can comfort me.

I watched you walk through the door
That I cannot follow.
My own, I cannot see through the stars—
Those friends I have not lost,
Who I will not have to kiss goodbye.

Memory lane is nothing to walk alone.
Especially when it trails into darkness,
Winding through white waters,
Arriving to this infinite clearing,
Where every moment of the present

Becomes a living testament
To the lives we’ve led and hands we’ve held.
You are the all of my summer—
This was something worth caring about.
You are someone worth sharing.

I would ask if this was over yet,
But nothing’s over while it still stings.
The hair binder circling my wrist
Grows tighter, carrying proof
That I once laid next to you.

Stillwater lay my head to rest,
Your nights have sent me spinning
Since I can remember being happy.
How can you be only five minutes
Down the street and still be away?

How will this couch carry my body,
When I still carry such hopeless dreams?
You’ve gone silent again,
Except this time not to think about the future,
This time not to think of me.

I’ve run myself out of words to say.
This is my greatest sadness.
The only things surrounding me now
Are brilliant flashes of your face;
Whispers of a coming change.

Girl From A Summer's Fair

If you’re traveling to the still water fair,
Where the grapes hang heavy on the vine,
Remember me to one who lives there,
For she once was a true love of mine.

If you go when the moon is veiled,
Where the rivers rage and summer ends,
Please see for me that her smile stays warm,
To always keep her beside her friends.

Please see for me that her hair hangs in curls,
A golden wave washed down her breast,
Please see for me that her hair hangs in curls,
For that’s the way I remember her best.

Many times I used to look to the stars,
I'd fold my hands and softly pray,
That she'd never forget my heart,
That we'd never walk our own separate ways.

So if you’re traveling to the still water fair,
Where the sun sinks slow on the valley line,
Remember me to one who lives there,
For she once was a true love of mine.

once a whole summer's ago

the beach after dark is an open place,

with dark ribbon waters weaving,

and ducks nestling in for the evening,

and the cloudy sky against your face.

have you seen where you have taken me,

through thick grasses and empty streets,

down to where the hands of the river meet

the smooth of your palm and shivering sand.

the cold is not too with us yet,

let the balmy air of autumn wash us,

pray the virtuous strings of reason guide us,

let us be awake and warm without regret.

could you welcome me into your wondrous home

as you first did so many stars ago

and when another summer passes we'll know

to be in love, or be alone.

Morning Streams

In the making of dreams,

There is a protocol

Which we unwillingly follow.

They take care of the bulk,

They prop the frame,

They bend and snap it

To its serpentine shape.

And after all the rivets,

Bolts and screws have been sewn,

They flow a river through it.

They are more bountiful

Than all the trees of the woods,

And their craft more beautiful

Than all the plied steel of this world.

But before the work is finished,

And their small, dim candles go out,

They wait for us to make it our own.

Whatever colors or striking senses

Will dye the river, they wait.

No time to build a ship, they wait—

For us to go wading through it.

resident sadness

it takes up a lot of room.

it is enormity with a tiny tongue,

flicking into my ear.

it stalks both the fit and sick,

it has no code.

and it's awfully cold

in the moment before it sits,

writing out prescriptions

that do more harm than good.

it would be easier to be friends

with it, but i know better

than to put stock into easy.

and when i ask it to be nicer,

it dries up to a wisp.

and i am none the wiser.

and when we part it takes longer

not much else happens on walks

except for the soft steps soft

thuds that we create

in the spaces we carve open

and it takes dedication to remain quiet,

while deer stand idly by

to graze on the petals that spring

out of your every tiny step

we water gardens with sadness

and by night crush them

with our bodies warm

as if from a day in the sun

it makes no difference to me

what color the roses are

or what the chrysanthemums smell like

they are beautiful i touch them

while they flower like lips

i hope in the night you feel radiant

and when a train nearby passes

making its soft, shattering sounds

i hope you let it take you away.

distant storms

this as they say is

without a doubt of mind

summer's finest night

the pizza, enormously

delicious as usual

and then nothing

the hospital lights

wrap round the park

where #5 rocks

from ground to sky

where lightning domes

and no thunder comes

smoke breathes like air

which is like a mint

calcifying white teeth

which we overuse

for our true smiles

because we are in good company

a diamond earring shines

through a golden curtain

a common gem so

uncommonly beautiful

embedded in your ear

where i've got to tell you

you are no dark side of the moon

my dear, we are summer royalty

and you are always enough for me

The Vastness We All Must Spin Through

The roof rumbles a vertical truth,

I am not high up as I once thought.

From here I can see Stillwater—

I believe in willpower, shortcuts,

A rock, skip and a fire-hoop jump

Over miles of reflective puddles

To reach an overwhelmed harbor.

If the day is allowed to expand:

We are doomed. Without food.

Left to chew on long stalks

Of unidentifiable plant life.

Forever furthering the stereotype.

Ruthlessly defending our honor

Cut in half by a rainbow's blade.

This cesspool is beginning to whirl!

Drink more to stave off the wild tide,

Soon there will be nothing more to see.

No bed ghosts, no refrigerator locks,

No Time to fix on a crooked cross.

Just a plastic cup and a tangled line

And another plastic cup in your hands.

These are the days that copulate,

This is my expansive crevasse.

These are the days that pass, shall pass, will pass.

When Far I Go Traveling

When through still and endless land

The winds like waves begin to blow,

And far I go traveling with dust in my hand,

I do not know how far to go.

When stars in murky pools go sailing

Above my wayward head,

I know that my time is failing,

And these nights grow numbered ahead.

When the grass is wet as the mind is dry,

And the fireflies go caroling in fields of black,

The only sound I hear are my footsteps in the sky.

The whispering lights bid me, go back.

When sometimes I go traveling far

Through a long dark curtain of land,

I cannot look away from such perfect stars,

I do not even know who I am.

We Are But Fireworks

We are but fireworks in the deep tonight,
Where fire unfolds like flowers bright,
While fireflies do colorize a field of hay
To keep the night's cold sentence at bay.

The spidering blaze and ruby flash
Drums while golden streamers crash.
The gorgeous fall of the deep blue boom
Will all be but silence soon.

I wonder if I've made some mistake
To watch it all reflect from the lake,
Where embers go to sizzle out.
They have no warmth or comfort now.

Why life bids slow for me to go,
I raise no flags, I will never know.
The hollow sky makes quite a din,
Where questions end and eyes grow dim.

So Much To Be Sure Of

I should have said this never ends.
I was too busy combing your hands,
Shining your mirrors, making amends
With spirits once buried in the sand.

The downtown bistros are twinkling,
Harmonics drift past park benches.
All the showboats are slowly sinking
Into the sash of the river’s trenches.

So much to be sure of and yet unsure,
Presiding over this pocket of world,
Where summer night’s calm endures
For smiling boy and painted girl.

Emerald streams dance across the river,
Guitars sing sonnets in the valley below.
Night breathes full as I hold and kiss her,
While the eyes of the city swing low.

If only they knew how much I’ll miss her.
If only they knew I’d rather not go.

In Good Health

Late in the night when I'm awake,
I wish I weren't, for health’s sake;
My mouth it dries, my eyes they sting,
Until the bells of birds do sing.

Yet in the day when I’m asleep,
My health in pieces still I keep;
Stowed within until the day
I need to hold Death’s light away.

For now I stir, and still alive;
I call your name and softly writhe.
You would not care to see me here,
With lungs so dark and night so near.

The steps I take will find no door,
They only lead to wanting more.
I would not feel so lost or ill,
Had you not loved, and loved so well.

Summer As If Light Through A Dream

You there, the one rocking around
On her tiptoes,
I think you have been following me
Through the nether.

Through the open void of dreams
That collapse
In on me like a tent. Yes, it was you
I saw in there.

I first glimpsed you months ago
Under a passing
Sun. Now you’re constant, now
I’m a lighthouse

Keeper giving constant attention
To your light.
When we lay still together I forget

About oxygen.

When we trace the neck of Draco
At the expense of
Our bare legs, now red and knobby,
I think about all

The happiness of centuries past.
Every exotic location
That has felt the brush of our wild
Coming together:

The purple loop of the slide,

Under a pond

Of stars, on a bouncing bus floor,

In the blanket

Darkness of an immobile car—
They have never
Felt such a good thing as us,
Coming together.

So now, darling, when I sleep
I know exactly
Who follows me, and I am

Not alone. Now

I don’t know who loves who

More, or how
I will release you from the
Arms of my

Dreams, but why think of that
When you will

Still come dancing back to me,

Every time

I swim through summer starlight.

Now That You Have Made Me Your Calmest

Tall glass of orange juice sunrise.
Scrambled eggs rise and shine,

Skip a beat breakfast.
Folded hands asleep like cattle.

What’s the matter clouds
Circling through pillow skies,

Last dark wine night
Bit into like a reverie.

Jam flowing out of a pastry.
Shallow stomach,

Full sheets of moon dust,
Laid out in a hurry.

The lack of lily pads
In this worm-woven lake

Brought the morning,
Which, like your hold,

Sets stars off my nose.
And gleams the lips

To kiss you with,
Endless breath and storm.

Cadavers

When I opened my mouth,
Cadavers came out.
They were quick to rip off
My veil of words, my shirt.
They promised I would get hurt.

Just one week ago
There was nothing to go on about.
Yet somehow they know
About my trips into the woods.
If only they understood.

They asked about the smell.
I said my only crime was that I drive fast.
That was when they gave me hell,
And told me to step out of the car.
The billowing sky cried a star.

My rough lips can no longer part,
I am innocent at last.
I tell you, it is truly an art:
To burn down a wet, crimson tomb,
Where even winter can bloom.

A Wholly Unromantic Letter to Callie Peterson

Dear sweet Callie,

I, Kaleb Worst, being a proudly hopeless romantic, pride myself especially with my romantic letter-writing skills, which requires a delicate blend of raw desire, silence, and that all-too-unknowable feeling that the world beneath our feet can somehow be given to a single person, for at least one night.

The sheer willpower of the letter-writer should never be underestimated. It requires a great deal of caffeine and brainwashing to convincingly pen down words like “forever” and “always,” which, like a lonely tide pool, may be full of water under the white wash of the moon, and yet be dried up completely the following morning. A professional letter-writer such as myself knows to avoid the tiny eyes of the sky and to keep my nose dipped in ink.

I admit, however, that I am new to the trade, and it will probably always feel that way. My first muse was a mousy-faced girl who sometimes wore her hair in shimmering curls; I developed a code using erratic symbols and illustrations to first write the words “I love you,” before I began using my own private code to describe the sheer pain; the crying into my pillow that sometimes slipped in at night.

That was all sticks and stones then, though who would know it. I first began honing the fine, fine craft of letter-writing years later, when my best friend flew over the Atlantic Ocean, to begin a family tour across the great span of Europe for two months that left me quite disheartened. And during these two agonizing months, I promised that I would write a letter for every night I was alone. It was those empty nights that I first filled my letters with buoyant, jubilant words, which whispered a promise to me that I never would have guessed was unfaithful.

That was my initiation, my spirit walk, my going naked into the woods with nothing but a dull knife and a heavy heart, and since then, I still haven’t found my way out. After all, it’s incredibly difficult to have a spiritual vision when your spirit animal changes every other night.

So now I, the battered and starving letter-writer, have met you, who is, unsurprisingly, unlike any girl that I have ever met. Except much more so. And because through luck, fate and our stunning good looks we have been brought together, I did only what I have been trained to do, and at the desecrated foot of your driveway, I penned a beautiful letter in the moonlight that, beyond shadows and clouds of doubt, definitely freaked you out. I am always new to the trade. The letter-writer never gets very much right. He only guesses at things until something crystallizes: a rhapsodizing image, a word with a grain of truth.

Although there is one thing that the letter-writer is terribly good at, which is simply accepting whatever fate is imposed on him. So if I have been wandering in the deserted wood, searching for my next possible revelation, in whatever form or shape it will take, and suddenly you should step smiling out of the underbrush and into the quiet clearing, gentler than a white rabbit and more beautiful than a silver dawn, I will say “Yes” to that and feel happy and grateful to have met you. And if the world should remind me that our days together are numbered, I will say “Okay” and throw open the windows. After all, I am always learning something new, and this time it is that if I were ever able to give you the world for one night, you would refuse to take it. Because how could you give it up once it’s yours? Though there is something for you to learn, too: If writing be the prayer of love, then you must know now that I am deeply religious. And in spite of this, I pray that for long as we are in the same state you allow me to hold your hand, because letter-writing really is nothing anyway but a lame and misguided attempt to fit my hand inside of yours, by using words that could even tear apart the moon.

Yours,

Kaleb Worst

You My Anchor In A Violent Bay

You my anchor in a violent bay, sink so sweetly

Into the sea-beds, which are by now browning,

On the sun-swept hill of my evening birthday.

My neck like chalk snapping at the twist

Of a morning wind, so quickly kissed.

Wracked as water, cast off by my fire-dry hand

Weaving satin fingers again, and again.

You my fancy parasol, embroidered with milk lace,

Lay down your lovely traps. Your cheekbones, the mast

Steering the winds that softly rubbed me today,

The day I am no bother. But still

You paint our liquid gates with sweet eyes.

Such a slow gift, a stem in the sea, laying

Down in a dim bed near the close of the year.

You the thickest root, dancing and bone-light as the stars,

Toe-pointed, stomach-stretched women made of light,

Skating through the sad film of the raging bay.

Your grape-green leaves on the twigs of days

Spark sharp, new colors in the moth cave.

For this palette, this young rock, your bubble kiss,

I give you waves, which rock again, and again.

I Could Not Lie At All

At the midnight hour of my fall
My father saw me and wept
He gave me life and an age-old glass
And a promise he knew I’d forget.

The room turned wide and green
My burdens laughed and left
I crashed into a spineless sea
My fears were cold and bereft.

A single door pushed forth to unleash
A vibrant wave of song
The music burned above the din
The night grew young and long.

I kissed the hill of a shadow’s cheek
I knew no guilt or calm
The golden lights flashed a moment’s truth
I felt the floor with my palms.

I took a mirror to my rotting teeth
A hungry child on a swing
And when the walls offered no return
The swing lurched forth into spring.

The moon swayed me like a tide
I took a breath at your shore
And felt the bones of a blazing hand
One I could never ignore.

The force of love rocked me clean
Two children shook and shoved
You must accept my apology
If I failed to make you feel loved.

The eyes of lamps blinked and waned
The carpet knew no crimes
I drank communion from a bowl
Just to hold you one more time.

I took my voice and cast it off
Into the grave of sounds
The tomb screamed back just like the wind
But there was no one around.

I fell into a shallow well
My dreams were bright as ice
I woke to find you sweet as sleep
And even truer than life.

Questions & Answers & Most of All, a Question

There are many questions to ask, answer, be denied—
some come from snowdrifts, others out of spring air.
The answers may be tiny assassins of our pride
but for none to come at all, I simply could not bear.

There could be a YES, the most wonderful of all,
a spear-headed rainbow sunk into a pot of gold.
A warm gust of wind, a cool silver waterfall—
The itty, bitty beacon that flickers in the cold.

But still lurks the NO, which has its many ways,
creeping and sneaking into every good thing.
With its truncated snout, it whines and brays,
and rips hands from hands and bites off wings.

And still there are others, like the WHAT?—
WHO ARE YOU? and always MAYBE SO.
So many answers lie in wait; I better cut
right to the chase before the I DON’T KNOW!

There is nothing to circle, no games to play.
You’re awesome, and beyond belief pretty.
It’s clear, I’ve run myself out of words to say.
Callie, will you go to Finale with me?