Sunday, October 29, 2017

The Language of Sunset

The language of sunset describes hieroglyphs of light
which, wisely, the palm fronds ignore. Watched from
a distance on high, through grey aluminum uprights
she walks unaware, metronomed by a creepy thumb.

(mist forgiven is mist forgotten down by the river.

there was that time when a bad thing happened.

the door to the chapel was rusted in a season when even melting could not be forgiven.

maybe in the light green spring a small salvation is born.

maybe under diaphanous blooms he will offer empty words devoid of healing. )

The language of sunset swirls down swirly orange
despite the mistakes of that word. Well, here goes:
what beats on a mapled uke is a homily on a range
strummed from a subtle D-major's humbling tones.

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Body found on beach at Sea Bright

A body found on beach at Sea Bright turns on sand
and breathes: coughs a tangled seaweed at the tide
and saves his soul: what was alive on a fairy strand
left him sole at night, his trench coat dry drunk tied

with its belt in a loop like Bogart, a way to justly sleep
on the slippy giant jetty rocks after a fey roundly night
of joyed carousing: with a kiss unanswered he creeps
down the wooden drop of wounded stairs, takes flight

across the darkened road, dark store under the stairs
closed but unlit merchandise points the drowned way
of escape: denied, salty now with surf spattered tears
he seeks tidal release in a far weedy sea green spray

of midnight. Off the tide in a hollow is a seaside dawn
lost to him in a leaf strewn blind as he stands to yawn.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

When the grey rain comes drowning

When the grey rain comes drowning though pastel,
washing a turquoise bench near two curved palms,
sadness. A numbness in hard red hands and sandals
streaks the blinded window with moist rinsed songs.

Many's the picture that curls in a cork-board frame or
gathers dust in an obscure drawer, recoverable only
when, in late August, crickets can be sensed at dusk
or black passerines fly headstrong into thunderstorms.

There was a photograph of you I almost missed, a profile
shot in late summer when the smell of leaves turning to
crimson begins eclipsing the promises of spring. Winsome,
you shyly teared, but we laughed about it later over wine