Rain – Color Project

The last of the rain

hides under the chipped bench.

In a burrow ten feet away,

Summer and her bulimic brood.

 

Children stare at their faces in puddles,

faces framed by the

rainbow slick of motor oil

in the water.

 

What hallucinogenic heat

pushes a woman to the docks,

makes her surrender in

the family boat named

SS Hypatia?

Girls to Women

Powerful palling

cannot cut the concrete.

 

A young girl filing her

fingernails will tear it

to shreds.

 

Life is beauty

too high

and devouring everything.

 

What machinery can’t do,

a Valentine doily and

a lollipop can.

 

Girls grow in to women,

request houses of firm foundation,

wear fake nails.

Eyes Red Galoshes

To the north,

isolation escaping over ice.

I was born of the crowd

to the crowd,

my mouth pasted on me closed.

I whip my back with feathers,

wear sackcloth of spun gold.

As the curve of collective consciousness

moves us closer and closer

to opposite edges.

The secret catapult

and the old rope swing

evade notice.

Except to me,

my eyes red galoshes in a

congregation of black.

Did I ever loan him a life vest

or sell him food?

We live our lives in a

stranger’s life.

He ran alongside the

multitudes until he

absorbed them.

From the Morning

In the creamy morning light,

fat snow lounges on the mountaintop.

My new day has no confidence.

My shoes wait by the door,

made of bone china

And stained with my used blood.

Secondhand fire bounces

off the receding moon.

Numbers await me,

my house and my mind

Filled with them.

Math cuts me.

The subtraction demanded

of me is too much.

I shove my feet in my shoes.

Outside the morning is frosting

on my world.

I have nothing but

the robbery of my body.

Old Friend

Somewhere in the identified town,

an old friend who does not tire out

lights the lamp.

It’s amazing what forms he takes

when he is alone.

Indivisible shape of personal election

and sweltering affiliation.

Loyalty of nationality,

shown by unlimited birth.

Women and infants like

oil and flame.

Surrounded by the neighbors,

He lives the life he has been given,

cleaning the cleanest of plants.

From One to Another

Small as a pond,

You are bordered by mossy velvet.

You act like me.

Rivers do not

associate with women.

First I was a fish.

Then I was provided with womanhood.

The oars on the canoe

Love one another in Morse code.

I’ll walk under the hollow water.

My understanding of

beauty and all that you can do

flourishes like kelp,

always below the surface.