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.
The closing elevator doors sound like
a girl weeping
and remind of the county fair
we went to years ago
The only thing I now still see clearly
is the color
It was always only ever a marginal trust
with the devil
in our pursuit for equality and want.
I can still smell the air
crisp and fresh
coming off the asphalt and the grass
as we huddle in the overgrowth
where the cascading lights
reflect vividly vacant
in Teddy’s soft
“I only believe in endings so pure,”
as the blood from the tips of her fingers
is streaked through her blond hair
and the woman’s laugh
from across the darkening creek
comes gently creeping over the water
“that the nostalgic remains of our lives
become the tears
to open the gates of hell.”
I am haunted
by those mystics
who climb from their crypts
misted and speaking a ruined
A vessel is born as the elevator doors open
onto a world of decayed salvation
and exiting I leave behind the girl crying
hidden in its mirrored walls.
“They will always be, you know.”
I find my spoon in my desk drawer for my instant coffee.
A red light informs me there are messages on my phone.
“There is no word for it.”
Wary and suspicious
a justice buries himself in the
shadows of a liquor cabinet. He lacks confidence.
“I am attached to the sparing of summer values and
grant reconciliation to November’s barren days,”
The letter from The Office of the Superior
lays torn in half on the carpet. It smells of internal networking.
A dog in a neighbor’s yard lets out a low moan and smells apples
in the air.
“If only his children… If only his children…”
Mrs. Witherbon utters to the crowd assembled
in the parlor who had come for dinner.
They look down at their hands and shake their heads.
“If only, if only,” they repeat in unison.
“A mantra!” the justice screams. “A mantra?
That is my compensation? No more. Please. The blood of my children
will shake the earth!”
Elsa, the daughter of the justice, examines the number of scratches
in the dinnerware and finds it suitable.
She is alone in the dining room except for Raymond the parrot who is
caged in the corner. With a smile she takes comfort in the
secret she has kept.
“It is a temporary madness. So much stress and now this.
What can one expect?” Mrs. Witherbon reassures.
The crowd is uncomfortable with her desperation being so
They nod, shuffle and appear concerned.
“Take flight you peacemakers,” the justice warns,
“for I will have your heads.”
In the town of Ruxberg some distance away
The Office of the Superior
asks a young woman if she would like to see a movie.
And she, overcome by the charm of His Elevation,
backs away from him and into the glass
of a storefront window. He can only laugh a chirping
cough-like chuckle in remorse
for the scandal.