I begin. Blue
Marginal drifts coalesce. Over
Speak. Don’t speak
our tangerine sin
Church rots from the
inside. Leaves shadowing
failed stone on the hill. Overgrown.
Summer touches your
under lunar paper parasols.
Weighted nature. A pocketed
of the universe
into the lilac. A name. Bruised.
Falls in upon itself.
Soft anger erupts. Swirling.
Vacant beyond your reach.
Our lives sheltered in
green. Aged. Bend
under the wind.
Torn into opposing directions.
The feel of her smile.
The knife blade not quite
provide a more detailed
How stripped bare her humanity
spilled into rivulets
under the gathered clouds reflecting a red sun
Geese flew in the sky as
the forest darkened.
Reports say that spring is now in
That love has been distilled.
There is so little for concern.
I mark how her elbow bends
in the last of autumn’s
and hum a canticle of low origin.
Charlotte believes a lovers’ quarrel
smells the same
poured over the mint in her mother’s garden.
She feels the end of a sonnet
is like the end of a life.
And yet although she recognizes something familiar
in the eyes
and in the manners
of every one she sees
she knows she passes
and will pass
through the world.
Monstrous praises she heard
slurring out of a half-open window
made her giggle
into her clenched fists.
She recognizes and knows
“It’s just that I don’t understand
Spellbound by the nuance
of a change in the
I wake each morning with the broken
thoughts of another person
lying at the foot of my bed
and I try to arrange them into a coherent whole
before they evaporate
in the newborn light of day. And each day
I fail and am left with only
the smell of basil
faintly fragrant in the air.
A gathering of memories at the water’s edge.
Vividly colorful and living. A terrifying
ambivalence moves them.
A passion for love eternally ending
is spoken of. They are sad
and lost and utterly captive
to the lyrical temperament of their own words.
But though vulnerable
against it I stand enchanted. It’s our preference.
Yet it is just an excuse if
simply for this brief interlude
we can share together
the blackberries that have ripened on the vine.
Thoughts of Tucson
in a small room.
A freezing rain begins to fall.
I placed my trust in divinity to act
and fell from
the face of the world.
There is a mysterious art to it.
The room has a window
and a door
and the walls are a light brownish green.
I feel like I could live here.
There are names on a list
and ice now on the glass.
Unbalanced I start a fire
in the propane heater
and begin to feel warm and loose
At the sink I pour another vodka tonic.
The names on the list are blurry
and I wonder who wrote them.
What they are for.
What it means.
The radio station plays early twentieth century
and I don’t have the heart to change it.
I have two weeks…
Little birds shelter in the branches outside.
It is nice in the country when the
farm fields are empty.
Ribbons tied to a school’s chain link fence
flutter and whip in the wind.
I think of Tucson
and a golden sun
into the desert
as I set a flame to a corner of the list
and watch as the fire burns it to ash in a bowl.
I like to think I freed them
those whose names were on the list
but the acrid smell
left in the air speaks
Change the chemical composition of our
where the last of this season’s snow withers still
in the recesses and shadowed places
the sun light
Holding my palm
to a prophet (a designer of fate)
I find comfort in the remedies she offers.
It’s a Tuesday which dematerializes before us
in such a flurry of philosophizing that our lips turn blue
Acceptance has been passed down to us
so let us be gloomy and in love and utterly
Strangers at the brook suspecting firearms are being sold
out of the city’s service equipment shed off Mill Street
let us pass without
The market is abandoned.
The air blushes pink with the flavor of cinnamon as
I seek an escape from this wearisome close
of winter’s retreat with a prophet who denies her actions on the solstice.
But the regrets we share from yesterday’s follies transform into a clarity
that designs within us
a passing reprieve.
At the base of the stairs she gives me
and closes my hand about it.
I grow fearful of the eyes behind the white windows.
The sound of the cars passing
on the street
make me want to answer her unasked question but find I
don’t have any words.
There is something believable about you
she tells me
but now I can only wait for you
to wake up.
Mistrial in the cool afternoon
Aspirations turn bitter
and bloom to the music of two voices
Joined together by a single note
into a shallow form of beauty.
The streets run on the hope
of a memory.
The clocks change the hour.