Consider

consider this
the heartbeat of twenty-
seven stolen seconds, dead

reckonings in
bitter January birth-
pangs; consider

this the end
of beginnings, letters
upside down

on an unfinished
page written by one
who breathes the last

gypsied breath
of penance wearing
chipped midnight

on her toes, walks
the iron-dark canals
like some soulless

wild thing, all the while dis-
(re)-membering:
once upon a

time, i knew
how to write
love songs.

 

brief empirical note on rigid body dynamics

The refraction of one-way windows
into remorseless blue-
puddle pasts full
of breaking
glass and sad Sunday

mornings angles
incidentally with the co-
efficient of sweet f(r)iction that
beads sweat on rivergrass
in December sunlight.

(Their shattering is
a thing beyond
the imperfect forces that pull
bodies & universes
together.)

Your Metaphor

 

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

These days weather
changes overnight.
Smoke filters sunlight;

embers burn all
the more brightly
for the silenced

desire. Yellow
maple sky, old
cracked oak

carpet over grass
that hasn’t even
yet been born.

Dewed frost gilds
homecoming
mornings,

words like
“hunker”
sprouting in

untried accents,
“distrust” burying
its lips in glowing

ash. A hand
can be a hard
thing to hold

in such climes;
fingers all too
easily balled in

anger. Memory
just won’t burn
as quickly as leaf-fall

and faithlessness
doesn’t pass
with the dew.