Its not poetry

His irises are two sapphire roses in June Gloom, as if roses could naturally occur in blue. 

I dream a part of me once knew a part of him. They meet in the 1600s as native people on the outskirts of the Pacific Northwestern woods. In the foothills of the Cascade mountains, they're pressed up against each other under the moon’s pressure, ears tuned to the howling of wolves. 

Who would have we been when modern instruments and careers were embryos of society?

One thing I find endearing is who he is during the phase in which his day is either igniting or reduced to ashes: he lays naked, in bed with wine or coffee and an iPad, wearing glasses.