found myself again in Powderhorn, waking
familiar bitter draft, stepping
lightly on wood floors cold and un-swept.
the silence be so deafening
one’s final breath.
November sky gray floods
over and I wonder
“nostalgia” has not yet been named
my eyes in some small pocket
see that glistening chandelier by night. By day
beads never could simmer with the gray.
can see the house-paint chipping purple,
devastation scrawled in curse
cold un-swept floors.
listen hard for love.
crave a trust that levels me.
grounded as I try to be,
dinner bell rings, shaking
balloon strings out of reach.
much as I try to keep
on my closed constellations,
burning maps ask
second chance. My buried
compass begs to be watered.
you will squeeze
everything out of me.
sheets will only stir with selfish
safety will be measured by everything
can’t offer, while
hourglass spills from
Seems So Childish Now
I scowl at autumn’s palate
its brilliant strokes.
They’re nothing but a cowardly
letting one down easy.
don’t love you) but
make the leaves a beautiful death color.
use ruby and gold, tangerine and crimson.
them brilliant before it’s all whitewashed.
rake them up.
forget the echo
(because the months ahead are bound to be loud).
Ashley Warren’s work can be found in the *Full Moon Poetry
Society*, which includes an award for 2nd best poem of 2011.
Ashley has been published multiple times in the *Elohi Gadugi
Journal*, has a short story in *The Cynic* and a poem in the