Coffee in the quiet warmth of morning. Birdsong ‘neath a cloud’s tilted anvil, and the way they paint their paths to a landing. Soft intrusions of fly feet and the clack of a late beetle. The imprisoned cat, with his round lamps and cobra sway. Later, I will buy boxes of band-aids.
Monthly Archives: August 2020
Please
Give me your hand, Love,
in these cold rooms of doldrum.
Give me your hand, Love.
By design
What is here,
by design,
is umbilical to me.
This feed of life
and blood of red.
But now,
instead,
a sorry head
thinks of strife
and the future of a knife.
Stewing in the green
You know,
don’t you.
You can tell.
I sit in the greenery,
but perceive only symbols.
All of its inhabitants
seem impatient,
as if to chide me
for this microscope of mine.
I am strafed with ill-considered bullets,
held down with malice,
but find a friend
in an unlikely place.
alexa’s home
A pajama morning,
and I’m barefoot on the splintery deck.
Creamy coffee smoke’s rising,
and a gull’s keen scream beats up a warbler’s song.
There’s a sun-gotten image of a fulsome tree
trapped and cancelled between smoky panes.
Inside, I speak to a machine, who answers tritely
in the accent of the day.
Aremyfeetofftheground 