Love Song

In a blaze, unable to adjust,
he lays his all upon the surface
and keeps within reach.
He finds himself at an angle.
Surreptitious, him she can entangle
solely if she chooses.
The smallest hour looses its fiends.
He feels it in the fingers.
What the bringers of this brunette doom
had all but dislocated.
Now her lick is turned against him
in all the right places.
Easing not the variance,
she resonates under suspicion.

-r. miller

O’er the White and Whiting Grass

This ruined alphabet sprawls
o’er the white and whiting grass.
Now is for choosing wisely
your next position.
O’er the white and whiting grass.
a scrolling listless panorama
of ghostly mouths, opening
and closing without sound;
Now is for choosing wisely,
but without agency,
as the romance of it all unravels
o’er the white and whiting grass.

-r. miller


The final bridge burning,
deliciously so,
is not a symbol.
Nor is the lean figure looming
in the peripheral shadows.
And finally, the We
that encompasses me
and everyone I know,
is not a symbol.
Mystic though they be,
they stand for nothing
other than themselves.

-r. miller

Box-Spring Hell

What hair entangles me here?
What filaments and wires?
And why these sudden choirs
of complaint hurling hushed tones
at the walls? Begrudgingly,
I recline in box-spring hell,
the bastard of moonlight,
chomping keratin until
my teeth start weeping.
I know I should be sleeping,
but not much else. Another drink,
and I’ll know even less.

-r. miller

These Harrowing Reverberations

These harrowing reverberations
felt just beneath the skin
issue from a reptilian depth.
The surface of the self quavers, quakes.
An impression remains,
but of what? Surely
something too abstract to name,
the memory of a memory,
the apparition of a ghost,
an image wholly resistant to categories.
One goes knock-kneed at first sight,
and the impression readily, steadily,
comes to dominate the surface,
that soft surface of the self,
until the surface becomes impression
and the impression becomes self.

-r. miller


How much certainty can we abide?
Here in this porcelain bowl of a residence,
is there any room for certainty?
Certainly, it seems that certainty
is fit for any space wherein it’s found,
but this is an illusory truth,
for certainty, it seems,
has a tendency to outgrow its confines.
This is no different – already the cracks
in our residence are beginning to show,
as certainty gorges itself upon a feast
of questions better left unasked.

-r. miller

If on Certain Sun-Spotted Days

If on certain sun-spotted days,
your shadow sings a jarring aria

whose tune traipses through your bones,
please, by all means, let it

guide the way you move.
You may be led astray, yes,

to some murky, unforgiving region
beyond the reach of all-too-human love.

You may be led astray, yes,
but with purpose and intelligence.

-r. miller

Who is it Walks These Infant Roads?

Who is it walks
these infant roads?
Is it the green orphan
or orphan green?

Those blissless eyes,
what have they seen?

Unrelenting, sterile prairies
and remorseless, bitter crags.
Cities within globes of rain
and cities without agency.

Hey, green orphan,
orphan green,
whoever wavers up the way,
what have those blissless,
bludgeoned eyes seen

yesterday, tomorrow, and today?

-r. miller

In the Wet and Willing Wild

In the wet and willing wild,
we dance until
our feet begin to blush.
We dance ourselves electric
in the wet and willing wild
to the rhythms of a lusty heart
pumping blood through
eager arteries and veins.
The pains of yesterday
have faded to a dusty mauve,
the pains of tomorrow
not quite real,
and in our frenzy,
the pains of today
are imperceptible
in the wet and willing wild.

-r. miller


Thoughtlessly, at play
trickling through the blue,
bluish seams, the gray
wintry tears imbue

all the all-of-this
full of gleaming woe,
shape a morose kiss
there upon the snow.

Gazes slowly drift
’round the sprawling white.
Brooding Night’s hands lift
shadows out of light.

And the shadows whirl
reckless, endlessly
in a breathless swirl
from which Gazes flee.

-r. miller