The golden hour

(after years of clouds and chatter)
she found her mate,
pressed against sunset.
Though he wouldn’t land,
she was content
to watch him wheel across
their patch of sky.
In shadows of bridge and mountain,
they embraced,
making vague patterns of twill
in the golden hour.


9 o’clock

On the other side of the tree,
she whispered simple wants:
to be inside his skin,
to linger on a summer morning,
and for sun to wash them away.

Seduction with a bowtie

He put on his tie
and showed her a home-glow
at the end of a yellowy path-
how could she have missed it,
some wondered

but there were reasons
regarding Fiji mermaids
and flim-flammery,
the likes of which hadn’t been seen
since the gold still held sway

over a cold summer day
that broke after the big storm
like the best spun sugar
in a child’s greedy hands,
sticky and licked clean.

Raw dough and Warhol

Heartburn because it’s Thursday
and I rationalize making cookies
to help mask whatever is happening
with my skin as I prepare to be social

A tiered jewelry box
filled with scratched pearls
and dinged diamonds
is no match
for raw dough on the tongue-
it helps my hips to settle,
distracting me from Warhol’s vampire battler
fucking me against the wall
(to save my life of course)

That may have been a memory
or a fantasy,
no matter

I missed my Wednesday ramble
but no one else did,
reminding me we’re all fallalery
(shining at least some of the time)

languid blinks catching
steam off a morning bird’s wing
awake in August