sunday staggered

faint shadows 

on vacant street
 
might deepen 

but do not
 
fall 

in flurries 

leaves 

distant blue 

hints 
of other lives...

antiquated desires rust in the heart yar

slate gray shingled beneath powder blue
smudged cloud doors sigh open spill
leather-belted exhausted 
dayglo  
construction workers
onto the side that burns she strolls
dark hearts 
shield her eyes from the glare
subtle mint tingle so barely there
car free but not care free
an e-scooter zips by.

Essay on November by Stephen Kuusisto

There is at times a small fire
In the brain, partita for violin,
Brier, black stem,
All burning in the quarter notes.
And the hedgerow
Beyond the barn
Calls its starlings in.
Then frost, sere leaves,
A swollen half-moon
Like a drowsy fingertip
Above the apple trees.

Quote by David Wojnarowicz

"If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would."  

we must smell all the flowers

fake orange flower 
found among fallen 
leaves & broken 
glass in the space 
between parked cars, a 
chalked rainbow fades. 
young mother presents 
the fake orange flower 
to her tousle-haired 
son toddling about 
pacifier clenched in his 
mouth, swiping  
filthy ashtrays from 
black mesh tables 
the young mother lifts 
the fake orange flower 
to her nose and beckons 
her son to do the same 
on this early autumn 
morning we must smell 
all the flowers, it seems, 
even the fake ones.

Forlorn figure

Walking across the river, to a job 
that would soon evict me 

like an unruly tenant. I noticed 
a forlorn figure, sleeping in the dirt 

where grass had once been. 
I am lonely 
but not nearly that alone.

[I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson] by Wilfred Owen

[I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell],

Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;

Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,

Clouding, half gleam, half glower,

And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.

And in his eyes

The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,

In different skies.