Nearing 11

This night is full of cold.
There are no blossoms.
My hands are curled, one inside the other
just as he would hold them.
The bluish-blackening sky is fresh,
ready to trade in the day’s cares
for night’s folly and play.
There is no sound but of muffled wind
pushing along the snow.
I button up against outside forces.
This night is full of cold.


Woven glass

A mix of fiery gems
makes night tingle along frosty windows
with a huge resonant loop
of yawning want and nervous jaw clicking.
Kneeling before alluring phrasing
like de Chardin humping Le Guin
in a barely contained thrill of nonsense
spread over fingertips and lips,
so tasty when the rest of the world is starved;
a decidedly decadent swish of crystal
on winter blacktop
where the whisper of wind
keeps time with a fading year.
Warming the watcher from inside out.

Flickers along sidewalks
on a brown evening,
trousers and flouncy hems swish the time
to the beat of a memory-
cookies and coffee and snow
so long ago
along a narrow strip of yard
with a stone wall
a white cat and black dog waiting
faint bells from the moon
and a mod sofa
meant for ancient languages
and a union of all that’s to come.


I’ve been in such a hurry
seeking the myth of acceptance
in sidewalk stains
and strange faces in passing cars,
reading whatever let me believe
I’m not alone
(words held only a passing affection).
Shuffling through engorged members
on a platter,
those climbing vines took up time
but gave no sign of understanding.
Even knowing there’s not one
that can offer absolution,
our pieces of skin fit,
a delicious distraction but like you,
I’m on my own.

It’s hard to believe now
that it’s so dark and quiet
(and blessedly devoid of decisions)
but I chased down the sun today
as its light quickly faded behind the hills
taking frustrations of the day
and tucking them away like
grisly meat spit into a napkin.
I didn’t quite capture any colors
so there’s nothing to show for my efforts
but I feel lighter for trying.