Left Pocket

My heart le                                                                            into his left pocket

a                                                                      d

p                                                           e

t                                               l

onto the floor               w

and cra


Letters To A Stranger

Come in

Tell me of your trip

of memories gained

pictures taken

food eaten

Tell me of curries and roads I can’t pronounce

gates swinging

of your father’s stare

when he realized how much you look like him now

Tell me about mountains and city-scapes

hungry faces

yellow eyes and green irises

About your dream girl just there

Come in quick

Did his eyes swell with pride

or a glint of selfishness

wishing he was young again, undoing certain choices

Tell me about the train you missed

the mists over fields

the mansions and shacks

how the words jumbled around in your mouth before

now familiar

just easing out

Tell me of oceans

and time zones


Speak to me until we are no longer strangers

but kin

establishing a reconnection

Do the men where you come from sway when they talk

Do the women where you come from shuffle their feet as they walk

and even though the stars are the same

if you tell me

that you laid there

under their luminous glow, wishing

I will know they must’ve been brighter than any stars

I have ever known

Come Back

watching you leave is like burning an angels wings

bring water to the scorched place

where hope springs

Come back,

I think you forgot a kiss

your heart

your charger, glasses, burdens, house keys, phone,


a lighter

a back rub

a hug

a plate of food

an embrace and a song

wrap it up in your pocket for later

when the out there slams your wrists

backs you into a corner

pilfering your happiness

Unfold what i have held for you

just like this

dab a little on your lips like sunshine

and let it soak in

remembering your space in here

where all the things you lay to rest


–Ciane The Knight

You Read Me



you read me

like an open book, plainly

so playfully

i shrug it off

summarize all my lines

you see me clearly

like prescription glasses

you compliment me

though we’re hardly ever in sync

even on pizza toppings we disagree


you will always fight for me

so put down your fists

i will be your gift, shield, and armor

My Baby

my baby’s got an off color way about things

he don’t like people

or festivals or parades

or house parties or prisons for that matter

he’s got a look that’d turn you to stone if you let it

but if oceans were dark brown ‘stead of blue

they’d be his eyes

he’d swallow whiskey before water

but that mouth can form the sweetest words ever said

and I love him from the crust between his toes

to the top of his head

we’so tight

that I can tell when he changes his mind about his favorite color

or uses different soap

when he loses hope

if he’s broke without needin’ healing

if he’s hurt but wantin’ fixing

when he bleeds

what he dreams

but most importantly, if i’m what he needs

and if I should let him go


ain’t that love?

The Profile On The Pillow

After our fierce loving
in the brief time we found to be together,
you lay in the half light
exhausted, rich,
with your face turned sideways on the pillow
and I traced the exquisite
line of your profile, dark against the white,

delicate and lovely as a child’s.
you will cease to love me.
or we may be consumed in the holocaust,

but I keep, against the ice and the fire,
the memory of your profile on the pillow.

–Dudley Randall