Another Way Round

 

 

Wish you Were 

  

Let’s talk about the bright, the spindly and calloused, red 

legs, the black toenails, three each, of pigeons on the

balustrade. About the cold and frothy ledge.

 

Scissor-breath sets it, shears the water on its way

to meet clouds, stark-naked and posed on the crackling,

white firmament. Let’s define sex, here. 

 

Night wants to rise, to charge the daytime clouds

for services rendered but only manages to reach the bridge

of my nose. A dog cries. I thought it was me.

 

I’m buttressed by a white robe, propped up by a

borrowed cigar. Fish-bone takes up residence in  

this old throat. An aging balcony juts from the facade.

​

​

​

​

​

We Enter / Sunset 

​

Need to grasp the meaning

of cracked black windows, of pharaohs

with golden eyes, of dice bouncing

over the rug, to grasp the meaning

of earthquakes and tremors, of openings

beneath our dignity in a hotel room

at the bottom of the Richter Scale.

You are more cavernous than I,

but that can change.

 

The lamp has a flowered-shade, conical,

three feet high, found and lost long ago

by a closet clown. Snap, we’re on.

Red carnations come to life, appear

to cut and slice the sun out of the deal.

Seismic rumblings close the curtains.

We fed the meter, parked reservations,

bought enough of everything for once.

 

Behind brocade, a two-faced moon

shuffles the cards. In our cave

honey drips from the pistils

of glass tulips. We place our bets.