Basil-laced strawberries swim in two quarts of water,
replacing yesterday’s battered, bloated limes with grace.
Tonight, they too, will be discarded like a pair of
sweaty socks, surrendering in defeat.
Skaters, daters, bikers, and hikers
weave freely in and out of one another, stuffing
the last of the capsizing light into their hungry souls,
before Hrímfaxi’s hoary mane hovers above the horizon.
Rose eyelids are warm with salt of the sorrow that seeps through my skin.
Burning, tender and fierce, is somehow felt when no other sensation is known.
Where does the blanket end?
Where do I begin?
The day is dark though the light be laughing,
laughing at me for bowing to despair.
If there is hope, I know not where.
flee far away,
so may this home be blessed
with health and fortitude, today
The sun decamps as we march here.
You lend your heart, I lend my ear.
Rich tangerine and scarlet dames
command the field with docile flames.
As we are humbled by their grace,
lush lilac looms on heaven’s face.
The moon reports as we halt here.
I lend my heart, you lend your ear.
The ladies’ gowns have been concealed
and diamonds bright have been revealed.
Your mouth unfurls; I see a smile.
Let’s linger now, for just a while.
The weight of those black keys in this palm-sized bingata
pouch never amounted to very much, yet they opened
worlds more abundant than Witwatersrand.
Gazing at such delicate flowers, dyed in orchid and amethyst,
our all-too-short afternoons waltz upon my mind; I smile at the
memory of the blithe and innocent spirit that you so lovingly
shared with me.
An empty floral pouch, coconut and pear lip balm (only used once),
Band-Aids (only used twice), antibacterial hand wipes, and alcohol
prep pads – fragments of a broken bond, bespoken by no one.
Delights of the night
have vanished from sight
and nothing I write
shall baffle their flight.
Delights of the day
are still far away
and nothing I say
shall hasten their play.
Limber limbs suspended in time – such grace is revelation.
Acutely aware of all the wonder that surrounds us,
my mind willingly turns inward.
Everything and everyone – stranger and citizen alike – is poetry.
epic narratives, only known by a select few,
or possibly by thousands who worship in earnest.
Even with vats of black plashes,
I cannot record them all.
My ink will run dry
and my memory banks shall prove insufficient.
It would prove to be a risible endeavor.
And yet, I ache for the loss,
with no anodyne in sight.
Living is the daily removal of dust
from various places
and beloved faces,
tending to years as if
we could hold them within
our ever-shrinking hands.
Fingers fold, hardening into
Wiping away time becomes
tedious, more trouble than it’s worth,
in a season when keeping one’s eyes
open can be a tremendous struggle.
leave them alone
all thoughts and traces
though it be stale and laced full of holes,
give us this day our daily bread,
for the shops are all closed and bakers
are home, sleeping quite soundly in
Knee-deep in obscurity, a man of indeterminate middle age wearing
a mustard-colored mackintosh stands poised to answer the front door.
He’s politely swiped matchbooks from almost every bar that he’s been to.
Bewildered by orchards of anxiety, he builds bridges of sticks, one chain
at a time, whirling each piece between his thumb and forefinger before
setting it in place.
In a massacre of time and good taste, the man sips on his seventh
cup of instant coffee in two hours. Brimming with unease, jittery
hands make lilting loops in the morning light,