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.
illness
flee far away,
so may this home be blessed
with health and fortitude, today
I pray
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.
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.
Versets…haikus…sonnets,
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.
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
questionless beds
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,
Farewell September
Welcome October
The river was rosy at dawn.
I saw a doe, stopped
in the water.
And when the doe walked, modest waves
flowed from behind her. I was
a statue then. And sensed
the doe hesitate. And at dusk, dozing,
the river was amber in the
June mist.
A tailor labors by candlelight,
gold rimmed glasses slipping
down his rosy nose. Outside,
wet snow bleeds from burnt sky.
Threadbare fingers, frail but firm,
feel fat folds of velvet while
discolored eyes glance at the mantle,
resenting those two brass hands,
those tyrannical sentries of old,
that won’t let him sleep.
