Wednesday, November 4, 2009

May 21, 2009

You collect them,
their eyes and their teeth,
their births and bar mitzvahs
Thier pulling on and taking off
of pants and aprons,
their children and their children's soft songs.

their bombs and their bones
their baked goods
all neatly ordered in their
oaken kitchen cabinets.

You collect thier flags
their heirlooms
their watches
and their time

their pens and the ink that spilled
their oratory and the ink still hiding.

You collect them as we collect you
your rumpled skin and chicken-scratch caography

And we, you and I, exist like some Escher painting
two outstretched hands trying to file one another away.

May 20, 2009

I'll hold this night
in the crux of my neck,
in the arch of my back,
on the shelf of my shoulders.

I'll hold this night
in the sleeves of my eyes,
in the shells of my nails,
in the little toolbox of my ears.

I'll hold this night
like i'll hold my tongue,
like I'll hold my breath,
like I'll hold your hand,
not holding mine.

May 19, 2009

On writing four drafts of a letter I did not send

I'm sorry,
and there it is,
no more and no less.
The leafless tree,
the grpeless vine,
the shelled acorn
and its little pumpkin soul.

I'm sorry,
and we are all sorry,
a misty-eyed patch
of harvest ready pumpkins
bare and apologetic.

May 18, 2009

Am I not still
a prophet of Bael?
Still licking my skin
with sharp stone?
Still waiting on my salamandrine god.