Monday, June 27, 2011

not sure where this was going.

we are four:

four pairs of feet, the

occasional callous or blister

where one sits

on the sidewalk of her watch

watching it all

the gravel skidding,

tires, eroding.

one stands

up for her rights like

her boss man told her not to and

another stands

o she stands, with fists pumping

legs burning

a fire building

behind the bricks of what she sees;

one screams

with a wide pink tongue,

profligating the word of the future

the words found hidden

in bread crusts,

in dust crumbs

in wainscoting, job hunts.

I cut off all their crusts today

garnished the air with them

tried to drown it in beschamel

and whisked the dried skin away,

watching it fall

onto the shoulders of my sweater,

into the pan of melted butter and rue.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Not never not
no matter how you are
you are never a ghost,

not to me. Light skinned
opaque, the sun can't see
through you. You are

stolid oh solid one. Please don't go
ghostly, go into mossy wisps
receding to the woods.

Hold my hand instead.