Honest textures undulate
in this valley of embarrassment.
Your face is plane.
Eyes unending.
Why did I loose my secrets on a world of cold mirth,
of casual scorn?
Tag: writing
The Immeasurable Suffering of the Sun
The immeasurable suffering of the sun in summer-
to work and work
and nothing but the self is immolated.
I too am an ambitious failure,
unable to turn the tide,
washing my linens with tears.
I know what it is to be fire surrounded by emptiness
and ice.
Going
Low, cool moan of train
curving through this
sleeping town
cold as coins.
wet as tears.
Going is an equation –
an answer with no questions
I’m a brook gurgling
beyond the tracks,
emitting beams of lonely light
Exploratorium
The children salivate when they see me,
a mother,
and dream of their own.
This is the exploratorium, she tells me.
The room is filled with grinning toys.
and the dolls go ignored because it is hard to play a mom
when you can’t reach yours.
Peace
frigid submarines slice the sea,
slit peace open like a package
but there is nothing inside
but a long wait for the tide to come in
Sweet Fire
Sweet fire chills in my bedroom
cool and
collecting dust.
The jealous window watches me,
tantalized by the molten heat.
Glass in love with fire,
melting in shame and desire.
It happens every day.
I stoke the fire.
Between panes the glass drools.
My Love
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.
Pieces of Me
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.
Micropoetry
Wino
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.
Miniature Moon 