can’t help smiling
at all the serious umbrellas
with foul tempers below
the awkward rushing
from building to building
make them look like waltzers
scrambling in the rain
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.
Garnish
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.
The Word Rummager 