Gray pavement glistens.
Rain anoints guttered leaves. Steam
swells over coffee.
Maybe distances used to simply be too
distant. Falseness could traverse the globe
be rediscovered on worm-ravaged parchment,
and accepted as historically accurate.
In less than
the width of a single eyelash,
the muted click of a keyboard,
lies now damage
everyone at the same time.
After the ceremony, her aunt approached her slowly, a smile on her face and a pair of scissors in her right hand. In her aunt’s left hand was a locket with a miniature painting of Hannah on the front panel. Her aunt stopped next to her and snipped a generous length of hair which she coiled inside the locket before presenting the jewelry to Corporal Davies.
“Thank you,” Will Davies said softly. He dropped the locket around his neck and gazed at Hannah, his eyes shining. His smile make Hannah’s insides quiver. At that instant she admitted to herself that perhaps, perhaps, marrying him was a good idea after all. As her aunt stepped away from Corporal…no, Will, her husband, Will, Hannah took the scissors from her aunt’s hand, stepped up to her husband, and clipped a lock of his hair for herself.
Dance of the old house
radiator: knit sweater
off, on, off, on, off
Written in January 1972 when he and I were sixteen years old.
So many years of hurricanes
and earthquakes, tornados that rip
through minds and souls and aliveness.
How is it able to still thrash blindly
through our bloodstreams;
grind into destruction
every heart it touches.
Hallway body slam
thunders sleeping eyes open.
Addled, all time stops.
See, if we turn both
our chairs this way, it will seem
a different world
presses wet leaves against windows,
batters gray-guttered snow into drains,
beads on the eyeglasses of cabbies and mail carriers,
pelts the round shoulders of the old,
and strafes the last, stalwart blossoms
finally to the sidewalk, never asking
for forgiveness or gratitude.
It never asks even