Leaf Fall

7811

 

Somewhere, not here

A field lies open,

Unframed, without

Mind, as if lost,

Waiting on ritual.

 

In Increments,

I have changed.

Each day dawns

Into itself;

There is no other.

 

Hear, and here

As well, I

Still seek

Her across

These echoes:

 

She followed

A fragile winter

Ice across a lake.

I am cold; the wood

Grown dark.

 

(October 30, 2018)

A Stumbled Fall

teacup-sunshine

after w.-a.-r.  with apologies

 

Static allowed no pauses

to slip his supplications

into their conversations.

 

Filled with honey, his mouth,

spoke too slowly, too low,

to be heard over the swarm

of bees infesting her ears.

 

The tea cup had no depth

beyond the damp leaves

he fingered metaphorically.

 

It was too late to go back,

to be what he was not,

to grow his silent desires

from the salted earth.

 

(May 28, 2018)

It is Itself Enough

apologies to ws


no explanations
until later, he
explains:
a difference
between his hands
heavy on my shoulder
now and the ache–
the moon’s crescent
here now, and Paris
then, but not him
then.
the sky’s less grand,
or am I smaller?
wisdom was simple,
or we were naïve:
despite the poison,
the drowning in air,
the grappling panic,
I am here without change;
patterns are patterns
even when I see them.
the house across the street
goes dark;
there are no screams
left.
(July 11, 2016)