Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Haunt Me

And from Virginia Ave.
(as far as Chelsea)
you want to be deaf
because as long
as your ears open
you might hear
in the shifting
of the dunes,
in the swaying
bayside marshes,
her melancholy
murmurings in Spring.
Even in Brigantine
the tsunami
of her voice
darkens the beach.
All stock in any love
still funds obsession.
So, with piles
of gray ash
you’ll draw the petunias
and all those fragrances,
which aren't your cologne.
Greenhead flies
bite exclamation points
into your ankles.
And in Ventnor
Mini cars are parked,
and the lights caution
that lips the color
of ripe cayenne
stain forever.
Your lips part
so ribbons of wind
can tongue their thin edges.
fold their wings
and caw mono-eyed,
you can't miss
their beaks of asphalt
and feathers of chalk,
claws of dusk and gloaming.
But here your myths
have no merge.

And your hands
are sweet with sweat,
unlike your boots
which are dotted
by questions.
Why is her voice
full of moons
whose shimmer
never quarters,
never wanes?

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Thursday, December 13, 2012

A Very Good Year


a sunny,
almost winter day.
Overhead, the easy grace
of thirty-six geese,
as slender and swayed
by the supple breeze
as marsh grass rising
like the last note
of "Is it a Crime."
And isn't it the sixiest of numbers,
its square root
equally sixy in jeans or
a cocktail dress?
Lips full and shining
as the moon after
the last hurricane.
Thirty-six is a leg length
that fits me almost perfectly.
I set my Earl Grey tea
down on the flat top of the three,
place my breakfast sandwich
in the hungry hollow below,
wishing to pick up
the six and trill it like a whistle.
On the jitney journey here
there were three people in the first row,
six scattered in the back.
In the Starbucks
there is a woman in front of me.
Her choice of earrings says
that she is a fashionista
of her wants,
but that she cannot work
a map well enough
to find the North of her needs.
I know too,
that there are 360 degrees
in every circle and that she
has more than 180
degrees of vision.
She is almost as slick
as she thinks she is
as she pretends not to notice me.
I pretend not to notice her
pretending not to notice me.
We both enjoy this game,
two schoolkids at Recess.
Her smile
is thirty-six diamonds
set in sunlight,
6 x 6 candles
on a gourmet cake.
The sommeliers all say
1976 was a very good year.
I know nothing of wine,
but can admire the curve
of a well crafted bottle.
My eyes linger on
every letter on the label.
Have I forgotten
a card for a friend
whose birthday approaches?
In the Gift Shop
I eye a box of thirty-six
dark chocolates,
imagine a certain one
melting slowly
on the heat of my tongue.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnaomon.)