A Mild O’clock

 

Squint of window
curtain, half-drawn
hung upun

some mild o’clock.
Outside,
everything matters.

Sleek of halfway
reflection, safe from
the fact of the face,

stretches
impossibly
upward.

Tide, sky, cloud,
wind, bones
lay rolled in me.

I dreamt the day
my body,
a narrow boat

sent off
along the surface
of the river;

made of
bark and wood
I bent, wet.

It was my self
I lay lightly into
the sweet current.

Like the Piano Keys

 

Aging in the afternoon.

Shuttered in

with idling air

barred by a thin usual.

 

The past hissed

steamed, broken;

the sky retching clouds.

Years, an anchor of

generations.

 

We are accustomed,

Invisible.

A hand out

floating in time.

 

How awkward:

Stale old beds.

Our worries like watches.

 

The inherited cup fills

certain to drop.

Shadow heavy as lead.

We shall miss the mark.

Our Own

With our own hands.

Poetry.

Mirror

 

out of darkness.

Mouths

knew too much.

 

Live like this:

The early

astronomers.

 

Like flame.

Then always, like flame.

That tidy enjoyment.

 

This manner is dance.

Unbridled..

Beyond artifice

 

flooded in sun

and regularity,

I have shared

 

that bright seat.

I pause; streaked

by fingers.

 

In a room

half-

familiar.

 

You feel it —

The flash of rebellion

in yielding

 

too far

with crimes

against solitude.

Heart Growled

 

Smelling of wood.

Remembering garden.

Impatient flowers

relentless against night’s peel.

A whimpering dream

of gold chimed

a dappled tapestry

of threads

like a shore.

The wave knew wandering.

Freedom,

untended confusion.