Thursday, August 23, 2012

Sundry Sorrows



She sat on the couch,
placed her knees
together, clasped
her hands, 
and looked.

(Even as she forges her own identity,
his influence
is never far.)

Aphrodite,
morning star,
guttering,
guide me.

Lucifer,
fallen angel,
sauntering,
lead me.

Vishna,
myriad armed,
grasping void,
crush me.

Noah,
savior of beast,
sputtering,
rescue me.

She was afraid.
She thought of you,
thought you might 
do something
to stop them.

Black coffee,
a warm orange,
a day's meal.

Three weeks later,
on a Sunday afternoon,
in the kitchen,
he was fixing sandwiches.
She sat across the table,
her eyes
on the clock:
2:36.

"Stay a while. Don't go. 
Please stay."

Staring at a block,
sunlight coined, millions
of motes suspended,
her mind wandered.

A month later,
except for wishing her
good luck,
when she returned from Nassau,
a gold band on her finger,
he never spoke to her
again.

Now
is the time
we gather to extoll
the powerless,
the worms tunneled in humus
and loam,
the shadowed,
the waterfront after
midnight,
movers in red.

We raise a glass.

The waiter placed
the plate on the table
with a clack.

Monday, August 13, 2012

The Happiest





(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

I don't know if this will make you
the happiest little girl 
in the whole wide world,
but I hope so.

(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

The mower is black, mostly, 
with several bright orange
plastic parts.

No engine.

To cut is to hear 
the whir 
of the reel,
and to smell fresh cut grass
in quivering air,
insects rising.

(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

The crickets' constant
buzz, 
harbinger of autumn,
bitter gathering.

Attic dust as thick and soft 
as a slice of Wonder Bread.

A fly's desiccated carcass lies,
belly up,
on a window sill.

She waves good morning
to the old couple on whose
doorstep
she pissed a puddle last
week. Ignorant, they raise 
palms and smile like 
idiots.

Midnight cabin,
a woman shrieks,
the window illuminated,
blue.

Untie the string, lift the lid.

A whisper of rainfall...

Pedal up the steep hill,
panting,
ready to return. Walking
into kitchen,
radio on,
psycho daisies
running riot.

(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

We got there, though I don't know how.