Blood Moon Tonight I explode light with long lens. Focus between limbs. Balance moon atop a shadowy chimney. I feel small, insignificant in a universe of diamonds. I sling my dreams, trusting stars to illumine hearts light years away. Lunar cycles bookend lives: beginnings relationships endings. God grant me a map of infinity.
Weather-Sensitive This heavy humid June rain betrays Mother Nature’s tweak of masochism curiosity in a failed censorship of quaint elemental menstrual melancholy The kind of weather Teddy Hughes would suffer to befriend My muse enables star manifesting in a room immune to skies though it matters not for it is its own self-reliant constellation extraneous
Harbor ‘s fashionable these days to live by the water so we put all our worth into a condo. It’s a delight to see the harbor blue on sunny days green now and then we imagine but mostly a silty brown. We lie on lounges on our balcony pretending to be on the Positano Coast
The Border of Your Heart is patrolled by a tiny figure goose-stepping back and forth, bayonet poised to jab at anyone deemed undesirable, dispensable: anyone not exactly like you. The unscalable black fence around your mind is wrought from rigid iron topped with spikes designed to keep out any thought not your own. What you
This Sweater You think I shouldn’t wear it? Even if it’s my favorite? Well, maybe so. But its pink is the delicate hue of plum blossoms fluttering in the breeze after an endless season of sullen gray clouds and humorless rain, its intricate pattern the wisdom patient fingers acquired by a fireside and passed down
Graves Most graves are already dead but they don’t act like it, their erect stones poised to impregnate the eye with names and dates until every pathetic fallacy scrubs the data beyond the rubbings like to a genie’s lamp, meant to invoke the person from the container. But no genie comes. No wishes are granted
Mid-Life That dusk was too deft: it wicked sad nostalgia out of treetops, scrawled and flicked far-flung secrets across a chimerical sphere, treaded afresh its upheld ceiling of concrete gauze. Ah, those were the leaps of an unwilled mind wild atop its uncoiled spine of interlocking coins. Its ruminations flocked unherded, entwined like tendrils knitting
Sisyphus Loses Track His round trips triggered the technology of counting: clouds, moons, planets, galaxies, his rank breaths dusting the eternal groove. But erasure of future, easing of scars inflicted playing strung puppeteer to the gods, echo sweet gestures tendered like rain. Compass missing, mirror of death broken into windows cheering on chance encounters with
Wait for It The forecast hovers between soggy and gratitude, verges on awe, balances muted light against lopsided gladness. Meanwhile (though Cosmos clatters its remote stones, and Existence casts its Theater of the Unheard from among the docile), the man’s morning’s pouring itself into day—and he stares off, fathoming the frayed front sliding past outside
Things fail us. My sister’s grey matter, the the letter “O” drawn in sand, the needle of a compass, remorse, the orbits of moon– Yet, we know the magic of the brain, setting each hemisphere on fire, each fold, each wrinkle, the geographies of thought. I once held the skull of a child in my
