waiting (outside the same cafe where i wrote my mother’s funeral poem)

across the street, two men
argue over the ubermensch,
and a cricket hops brokenly
cross paving stones. from

the corner, scrying: how long
have we sung summer songs
and dreamt of october? running
yellows as they slip to fall,

sometimes it feels
like putting a bandaid
on a bleeder, not tying it off
with knots-in-silk. surgeons

would know these things,
but it is too late
to catch the sun heading
already south, and south

again. across the street,
two women argue
over love & champagne.
the cricket is gone. a maple

tree sighs sickening
as it sleeps in an ocean
breeze, and finally
october yawns & stretches.

Between May and December (II)

The fifteenth. Almost too early to be called morning.
A last wide-eyed breath, oxygen
lines not enough to pull life
down into lungs riddled with what is no longer lung,

nolonger her.
There are no witnesses except the roses
beginning just to bud. He plants a miniature, pink,
in the side bed she had wrested from dust.

Her side of the bed lies cold, stretches
south. The phone rings again,
and again and again. He isn’t
told the day they put her in the ground.

Her carefully tended gardens bloom
once more, fade. The pink thrives
in caked mud through hottest summer,
slight scent of cloying memory.

September brings the burden of storms,
hurricanes. The side bed is awash,
and he is hundreds of miles away.
Wrapped in cold stone,

she can’t hear the wind as it cries.
First frost comes late, softly.
The twenty-fifth, Christmas morning,
a single blighted bud nearing

crimson
has risen shyly against the
white of Decembergrass, but
he doesn’t make it in time to see.

Re-Drawing a Portrait Once Painted on Plywood

A lone housefly myopically crawls

up pale-peeling kitchen walls, entropy
in quotidian microcosms that

screams of a stiletto- hardness
tattooed in both prismic eyes. It

belays the soundful softness
of rounded thighs and arms

of the woman at the table,
the smoke of her solitary

cigarette winding like
lust toward the fluorescence

overhead. There is sex
in this as in everything.

Even death. An unwinding
of flesh into the universe

that birthed it, entropy
again. Or perhaps simply

childhood timelines
tangled with tangential

tomorrows and the
exorcism-autopsy

of memory, a stillframe
of this solitary instant, yellow

and blue, aborted phosphorescent
remembering.