Month: July 2017

I don’t think of you
when I feel the world
in my pockets;
too often

reach your unbitten hands
to paint the sidewalk
with transfer chalk
in sighs and murmurs

You have for me: eyes
in jars preserved
with quick sense and
clever wit.

You ask me to close my eyes
and, without adjectives, describe—
which sounds a bit like
painting without light

Outlined in fine, black ink
where white identifies with empty,
I am the artichoke in the garden
asking to be transformed
as light through a crystal prism

A self-confessed teen casa nova darts from a Chase ATM, whistling
a song about plenty, chasing a twenty into El Camino Real.

Hope comes towards me
crawling on it’s belly, ears back,
tail tucked, protecting vulnerability

I’m standing on our old front porch,
The house with the long doorbell, windows
Shuttered.

I would like to hide from the world; the ice mansion of Dr. Zhivago. only one white road in and out. In winter, flames rainbow the icicles. A small room — walnut table and chair— used envelopes for starting poems. In...