Observe the golden bowl: in the well of the base
a bubble of air holds a single fleck aloft. What topples
the particle to the surrounding circle? The thought of it
makes your hand shake like your faith in things.
That decadent night, we touched all the places
corresponding to our own desires. At dawn, we sought
our state of least energy; it crept up like hangover.
Breakfast, and I brush my cheek to map your crumb.
You flick at the wrong side. There is no lateral inversion
in a place of no return. I look in your eyes and watch
the laws of reflection changing.
--poetry super highway
The Executioner Looks On is Max Beckman-influenced.
Face on Fire
Fireworks threatened to take the top off. Wet palms
twitched under eruptions of happiness.
Shoes by the door piled up like pups--cornered, laces
tangled, tongues caught in a lie. Checkmark wings
on canvas heels had been tools toward anonymity, erasing
footprints where they fell, driving zigzag dogs crazy
as they nipped at nothing.
Judgments collected under the awning like rain, hummed
against the shell of her ear. Her skull slammed in her head.
Payroll hands weighed the options like so much gold.
Each day had been a map of dark topographies. Turning
into a skid would only postpone whatever came next.
Every step along a lucky streak uncovers a foreign place
tricked out with new lies and silences. Rising up to meet
the path of great good fortune, she could have done more,
if you want to know.
Blue Sleep is quite O. Redon-esque, I think. Just missing some flowers.
Dreamscape with Archetype
Opposite the door facing winter,
you sit in a canoe, baling lake water
with one tin can. Let me help, I say.
I open an umbrella over your head.
The wind inverts its ribs, draws eyes
upward to the blackboard slashed
with chalk, where contortions of dust
dance in the absence of a sunken sun.
We watch them collapse all the way up.
In our room on the water, blue lines
of the bed revise the light. The moon
wanes, paler than it should have been.