there is a symphony of rain
in the street
a russian ballet of it
dancing over the
broken phelanges of the trees
there is a bare patch
in my yard
where squirrels
meet
for war counsels;
weather has negotiated
for them a cease-fire
there is a thorny bush,
a bristling cat-o'nine-tails
the bush of a lesser god
bent with ice
to the ground
where no one dare
walk unshod
there is the pretty waste of winter
fallen across the earth
lifeless rain
choking the seeds in the
birdfeeder;
leafless fingerstrokes scratching at the sky;
spirit of the tree barely spared
as an angel with a silver trumpet
passes over, dancing a dirge
for the firstborn days of
this new year
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another january 15th
thick trickling she melts
a version of herself
encased in her semblance
she cries wet drips
wet drips drip
swelling her coat
a self defeating measure
drip dripping she goes
splayed,
exposed
yet
stifled
moist she creates
a suppleness delusion
breath quickens as
wetness thickens
droplet drips
but
drips not dropped
as melting trickles thicken
to form her silhouette
against the night.
girl{friend}
risposta
All the sonnets in the streets of Italy
Broke to his wife and children the breaking news:
Never was she loved true by Alligheri --
And better treasured sons made he with his Muse.
He had only made love with sincerity
Responding to another’s poetic cues
His offspring would last for all, eternally
Though his family name would fall in disuse.
But I saw a light through the ice on a tree
An Empyrean, and you, alive, somehow,
Walking me up to the secret of this street...
So how can I allow you to disuse me?
We’ll have to make children of poems for now
And poets our children once we again meet.
breathing your breath I know I breath mine
pressed sweet
crushed lips want the hurt
immerse me in your secrets while you are
weeping your
whispers through my hair
girl
you immerse me in your secrets while
weeping your
whispers through my hair
this might sound better...
you always think of things that sound better.
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