Sunday, November 10, 2013


We dance after midnight to the music of Bix Beiderbecke.
It hardly matters that our history has been as jagged as obsidian;
it hardly matters that our bodies are overly sweetened by gin and tonic.
Tonight, in mutual embrace, we are as beautiful
as the corsage of white roses on your black silk dress.


Tonight I shall go to the creek and catch you a minnow.
Then I shall read you poems by starlight,
and bend the curvature of time so it is agreeable to us.
There is nothing in the cosmos that cannot be overcome,
except the distance between our gazes
when we hear the leaves rustle in the dark woods differently.


Winter breathes into the marsh.
Ghosts, cloaked in opaque white veils,
ascend and inhabit secluded treetops.
They swoop down quickly in tandem,
licking the tacky grass into ice,
to show that their reign is absolute.

78 RPM

Her bones are shellac and mineral filler,
but she gleams like pristine onyx,
impeccably cut with elegant intentions.
She speaks the language of lost secrets,
repeating the same sagacious tale,
reinventing the new world into old.

She is eighty years old, but unsheathed,
and splayed on the eager turntable,
she pirouettes like she is twenty-five.
She has had many paramours;
but our hearts now exist for each other,
grounded by the weight and mystery
of buoyant young lovers' sight.


Your fingers brush against my hand,
as we stand adjacently on the balcony
to watch snowflakes twist randomly,
and paint the rooftops lily-white.

The coding of your fingerprints impart to me
your secrets and intentions.
The ridges of their subtle, flawless art
generate indelible impressions on memory,
making it impossible to contemplate objects of beauty
unless they are congruous with your immaculate design.


Threadbare hopes spun from silk
connect our precarious hearts
as we tiptoe across sand to the sea.
Yesterday has already washed away;
time has woven us into now.
With a candle in hand, tethered,
I shall follow your blue eyes
and watch the waves crash against rocks,
allowing the salty air to envelop us,
and bring us a new set of dreams.


Somewhere beyond street lamps
that shimmer like metallic ice
the birds sing before dawn.
Invisible, their glassy voices recede into the moonlight.

The mind aches for their image to prove that they are real.
Through memory's wintry fatigue, perhaps they are fantasy or delusion;
but such things are insignificant, when the frosted heart in waiting
longs for tomorrow's time today.