Thursday, March 15

The Pretty Ones

they draw their lines with looks, the pretty ones
give only what they want,
sweet amethyst caves where wanderers lose
plumose words from pinkened doors
fading boundaries against the blackness
where no one, nothing enters unbidden

they move beyond this realm, the pretty ones
with poems beneath their eyes
hunger without but never within
breath expiring in flightless aviaries
orienting themselves toward the brightest stars
for none divert their paths

they mystify the sophists, the pretty ones
exist in essence to humble the world
amplify stain where much is old
the eloquence of form in every hazy motion
the consequence of love’s more fatal notions
and never can cause be known

Wednesday, March 14

The Bee

the truth is that a bee flew in my window
and I didn’t notice it for three and a half years
when it began to look so pretty on my curtain,
made noise and gave me cause to recollect
that it’s not the first time I’ve been disappointed
and surely won’t be the last
but it’s a gift of mine: finding something where there’s nothing
it gave no quarter to my stare, little shiny thing
its several legs in unison moving.
what my heart deems lovely my eye makes ugly
and though it buzzed the way it ought
it sought flowers all its own
in gardens where I could never be
--aged augury, soft and watery,
its inability to acknowledge an observer,
a room that had no space for the two of us—
and still, a window I could never open

Tuesday, March 13


diamond in the cotton dark
moves the mirror of my heart
no part we take in turning

boundaries between the two
he, no I, no—must be you
so true the murmurs calming

soft the sleepy dewy eye
the radiant glitter born to die
here lies the dusty twinkling

Tuesday, February 27


Hand is a hindrance, Gabriel, fingers in the way . . . souls slip
between incomplete triangles, tangles of irregularity.
The sparrow sings her joyous song, witness to the
invisible collision,
immortal connection.
Reflection indicates a weaving, but
projection impels the sometimes ensnarement that ensues
when angel makes mistake—no going back on fate.
Dates and deaths and births and breaths,
the fall improved but not avoided.
How much happier would we be—brightest one—
if your strength were failing?
Your aim ailing?
What good does the birdhouse when the birds are indecisive?

Monday, February 26


it is the night descends, brown and dusty, powder loosed unceremoniously
from hands divine, hazy raiment for a world undressed
the gentle gossamer of predilection

and flicker the shadow of presumption, conjured in modest moments
the afterglow of a flare forbidden, silhouette of small white petals turned gray
a beauty recognized though not realized

a buzzing of drowsy bees within, prairie of peculiar embrace
upon fleet feet the couriers of oblivion put to rest
all watchfulness, the agents of our qualms

Thursday, February 22


In dreaming seem our cornered failings
Fragile things, in cages flailing
Minions to our ailing angels
Crystal starlight quickly paling.

In wishing spoil our great endeavors
Decompose a life dissevered
Headlong into clever maws
They drop into mundane whatevers.

In hoping warp our heart’s inclinings
Rigid rings of ice entwining
Bones within the spining backs
Of creatures sick with others’ whining.

In daring wax our regnant conquests
Prove our mettle, natures undressed
Crash the waves whose unrest we
Must apprehend at will’s behest.

Tuesday, February 13

Wax Museum

nocturnal humor makes its place
within a mansion moribund
we don't approve its impish face

but quail, but blanch, for being stunned
which room encapsulates the wax
museums where shape our urges shunned

the marionettes in stilted acts
carve figures out of yielding stuff
sweet wanton visions of what lacks

the visitors they cry, enough!
in hallways angled to reflect
odd myriad images made to bluff

for if the eye did close inspect
it scarce could catch the clever cheat
must turn them inside out, dissect

the bits within the dummies' meat
we'll find our mirrored selves a trace
of candled sundries turned effete