Songs that Fall

How absentmindedly,
I move between
the redbrick house and grapevine tangled fence.
The tiger lilies gently
reach for me
and paw along a slender path.
The dusk,
applies a final puce before it leaves
and unaccompanied, the evening chirps
and rustles on.
I’ll watch for stars to hurl
their spears and perforate
my private wars.
I won’t forget
to trace their flight of curve
and hold up swollen words for them to burst;
releasing songs that falling,
sing of earth.



Thus far, we speak in metaphors:
deodars and building ruble,
prickled barbs distressed in stubble,
a bell that bids you, ‘get the door’.
My coq au vin, your veiled consent,
the break, that fake, a supplement,
in grasshoppers, as creme de menthe,
those seldom spoken, never spent,
mute conversations I adore.

Our sentences are serving terms
as prisoners with no recourse,
through wishbone breasts with curved remorse.
Your feathered mask, my wan concern,
the absent verb dulled on the thimble,
in silence swings from sharp to nimble.
Thin similes defined in symbols,
gelatinous, they stand up, tremble,
are lettuce seed the hearts return.

Garden Variety Tritina

contemplating mouths,
their coolies, their foehn wind and thorn.
their polite, embroidered nouns sown

through sockets of silence. Sewn
in violaceous threads to burlap; a mouth
with no petaled tongue to harbor thorn.

Lips basted on with a needle‘s fine thorn,
buttons of disk for eyespots are sewn.
Excesses of mauve cross my scarecrow’s looped mouth.

Dog Fight

Dive with your jaws open;
anticipate his ability
to double back snapping
a hair’s width
from your wind-splayed ear.

Soar over his upturned underbelly
and peddling hind quarters
before he rises from
a clumsy about-face
that didn’t work out well.

Your instinct blitzes,
is a sun-tipped
acetylene torch
needling through
a choke-chain.

Forget about the cockpit,
remember the fang.

You have already memorized
the red cross on his tail fin
because you painted
it there yourself
one golden afternoon
in the hangar.

Unseasonably February

There were birds this morning,
as though the weakened winter sneezed.
The great dial of clicking days
grows unwieldy.
Trees pimple too soon
for the calendar,
bees rustle
in their waxy hollows.

Waiting for the train,
we wearily shoulder
ill-chosen coats,
are pipe-cleaner figures
with overdressed gestures.

The city slides by,
conjured up
through the late March
trompe l’oeil.

My eyes are full
of tortoise shell,
the pomegranate crowds,
searching every face
for love.