Mother Luck
Be kind.
This year is sticky and sweet.
My weeks are rotting out.
In the canals the water fishes for teeth.
Tuesday is bare backed, draped
over a settee –
too generous with its mornings.
My yellow, savory evenings are limpid with trust.
To die like the day does –
More and more color then stardust….
My body grinding its gears
like a Wednesday jealous of Friday.
7 is in love with 0.
0 is lovely,
has the DNA for heaven and Earth
and whatever the Hell my old job was.
7 is proud and strong and knows he is luckier than 6
or his ex girlfriend 8.
But he roams into the rafters of primacy,
of sharp eyed division,
and the comfort of 0 –
the way she gives of herself
and doesn’t exist,
is missed by him,
who can see only her perfection on the page
her gift for making others greater.
But beneath the tired eyes of mathematics
.000001 is also in love with her,
and is much more in reach
and glad to be.
Ok, so the dream is dead,
or not dead really,
but dying
under this beautiful house that loves me,
with her feet sticking out of the crawl space.
She was from the East,
and wanted to go further,
to every palace and battleground in Europe,
to be hunted by crocodiles and lions in Africa,
to waddle with penguins in Antarctica.
So what if things did not go as planned,
if the mice cry in their nests?
Who cares as long as the man is good,
the mind has its medicine?
And, anyway, someone else will have the chance
to slurp up the Earth’s beauty,
when Terra Firma
is older and even more graceful;
she will have my place when she is older
and more graceful.
Miniature Moon 