I see my face in silver water
My voice was in the bottle you broke.
It dissolved in the vacuous air.
My love you skipped like a stone on the sea.
I see my face in the water silver
My voice broken bottle.
This dissolved air color.
My love to skip a stone over the sea.
I see my face in the water silver
My voice broken bottle.
It dissolved air color.
save my love for a rock on the beach.
The dust stalks me like a black cat.
Every bleating town I go to
a chunk of me falls off.
My breath smells of earthquake.
Drunk my eyes tremor.
On the trip home I will find where everyone left me,
see blocks of myself in ditches.
The grape’s spirit is vengeful,
will wear red to my funeral
and hit on my husband.
The grape’s spirit
will liberate my fine linen
from my lines,
my signature from the language.
She is a wind rippling through
a field of water,
the flowers gasping to stay above the plastic surface.
The world can blow away like a wish.
She is a wish of piano fingers
and leathery song.
The touch of her mind on the water
designs waves that don’t care who they drown.
He is an island,
crunched and crumbling.
Seven sisters treat the water to something
Red
New
Foul.
Divine qualities.
Sparkling waters.
I thirst for sour songs that make me salivate.
Born to rise,
I was never mild,
a lava rolling over lives like a yawning lover in bed,
first one side than the other.
In the end I wasn’t a rock or a cliff.
I was mud.
Tableau of Realism
Her barely tended fire
The furniture in gold raiment
Windows yawning
Into the gaping hole of night
Scourged by street lamps
Eyes shut
The wood veneer everywhere peeling
Him burning alive bellowing
Ultraviolet mafia
exacting private taxes on the air.
Oxygen is an independent element.
Yet shrieks when hydrogen is rended from it.
Hi.
I am a neutron.
Hi.
I am an imaginary number.
Hi.
I am dark matter.
Light blows this way
then that,
a cheap exotic dancer.
Contortionist.
Extortionist.
And always the ultraviolet mafia
is skimming some off the top.
Black pink
Space in a coma.
Sugar up and down.
Sour Sundays stay out of sight.
We are not as rich as we think we are.
Yet I have an untried umbrella,
a love of picket fences,
and black pink.
In the room with the low light
and the high shadows
she says hello to her grandmother,
her grandmother’s sin,
and can’t see Heaven for all the Earth that lies ahead
on her head.
Miniature Moon 