El Verano

you look like an impressionist painting,
through the patio table glass.

the edges of your head muddle
in the solid panel
of opaque fog
washed with hazy cobalt 

I see a soft bubbling orange
like the flame of a gas streetlamp
in the snow

it illuminates swathes of peach and blue 
they hover together-
as you move. 

the colors shift like ship sails
in a listless breeze

metal grommets clang gently on masts
sea grass bustles like crinoline on the dune
the wind sweeps your hair
into the shape of a wave 

I reach my finger out to touch the polished convex
sections of glass
 
turquoise - 
yellow -
green -

I tap them all lightly.  


a mosaic beneath a cloud

gaussian blur-

Le Cœur de la Mer

my heart is encased in a glowing menthol veil-
circled by a burning neon halo
of titanium white.

wrap it in bands of wet seaweed
of the deepest forest green.
mantle it in aloe leaves-
shower it with bits of clover
in small doses. 

the fire is dim and crackling near the sea
in the darkness
the waves are coming in

a groundswell surges against a nearby rock
heavy mist spatters
the smallest dots of cool water
over my face.
as if a thumb drew back against the end of a paintbrush
from a ladder above me-
tiny translucent pebbles fall
descending in blankets
over me.

I push my fingers beneath the cold damp sand
as i go it slides like tectonic plates
creating echoing circular patterns of wispy cracks
my skin feels cool
saturated grains of sand push up
behind the tips of fingernails 
I feel alive. 

the waters swirl in the cove beyond the ridge
I hear them softly convene
far from me now.
Let's walk there tomorrow before the sun
rises too high in the sky 
before it begins to hurt my eyes. 

cover me-
keep me safe.
just whisper now

we can wear our capes
we can wade in the blue pool in the morning
and we will look for special shells.

let me hold the stone please
let me warm it in my palm

the wind can't blow us away-
don't worry.   

Let The Static Leave

There is a woman singing about the flowers she sells
in the cobblestone alley.
She walks down the street with her basket
purple, blue and orange
petals of angels silk -
they bend slightly in the wind
she bundled them tightly
she wrapped them up in ribbons
with colorful victorian patterns.
The clarion shrill of the voice falls up against the stone walls

The act is ancient
sounds of voices and stones are meant to meet-

I imagine another voice
a very long time ago-
at the highest peak of Mount Kilimanjaro in a village
carved out of the side of a cliff.
it echoes in the snow
climbs up the tall sides of the rock
looking for the solace
of warmth and long arms

her voice

dissipates,
cast out like fog hovering over leaves.
just after the morning dew-

that opaque place between the density of the white smoke
and the beginning of the leaf-
that’s where you want to go .

just a dew drop resting on a green leaf

swimming in a temporary cloud

I like it when the room is completely empty
and you can still see the markings from the vacuum on the carpet -
when there is no one in the house.

when the fan is blowing on the floor
after it has been mopped
and the room is clean
and I will lay down
with my head pressed to the ground. 

I just want the moss beneath my fingernails
I want the sun setting over petra
I want to fall asleep to the sound of voices humming against stone.

I’ll walk backwards from the room,
to the front door.
The sounds of grasshoppers
lightning bugs
the mellow glow of the porch lamp.
It just rained
I feel the sidewalk wet on my bare feet.

will you go too?

let’s fall asleep on a pillow
in a field of tall grass
just before dusk

the silence of nature fills our ears
like invisible water
as we drift away
together