Another day, another version

 

SOMETIMES IT SNOWS IN APRIL

a DJ Reneg8d remix for LaSon C. White 1961-2007

 

April sprouts around us,
is the sky as sullen there? 

Why was the hour 

after we talked cruelest, most raw? 

In less than a month, 

some oncologist claims
breeding cells will overwhelm you.
Lilacs still bloom here as there, 

just outside my screened doors. 

Hints of all the Prince songs 

we’ve shared.
The purple petals somehow
dead certain to flurry down,
land and soften our walkways.

April’s sibilant drizzle
is a ride cymbal mimicking
the rhythm of memories,
cruelest at dusk. 

What other month 

would dream of breeding, 

then watering these lilacs 

recent as bruises?
Out of the patter
of a thin rain's fingers,
the Alto vibrato of a voice
dead on key, 

conjures “Adore”,
lands on these ears.

April winds wane,
is that my ringtone amid
the evening news? 

No, it’s on vibrate.
Cruelest would be 

the quiet following the call.
Month after month 

bent on breeding a grief 

fragrant as these lilacs 

we both adore. 

But right now,
out on the horizon, 

this purple dirge
of a setting sun 

may present the only chance 

to be dead silent 

and feel your voice again 

in the land of the living.

Another Idea

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AS ADAGIO FOR VIOLIN AND VIOLA
(for Hilary Hahn)

Not unlike the way 

some fingers might 

crave a certain sound 

as they slide 

down a neck

to bend a pitch—

a prayer of uncertainty

may also seek 

to merge the shapes 

of two citrus bodies—

say a blood or

navel orange—

within the silence

of a still life.

And yet not 

a long island sound

connecting two bodies 

of water under

a duvet of darkness

or not as signed waves 

from red carnation lips

making the leaps 

of a ghazal

into the sea

of a secret which

—when you toss 

your hair that way—

seems to ripple like

what in lesser light

could be called

—for now—

abandon.

But maybe

a sound like fingers

on taut strings—

while orange petals

warm the air 

above the wisp

of a wick—

as if these two

curving bodies

might share a note

—or anything 

hand drawn—

that could 

inscribe us closer 

to a Trouble Clef

where a silkening

seeks to blend us 

into one long scarf 

of sigh—almost pianissimo 

as freshly cut violets—

or perhaps begins

to reach beneath 

a bare strip of thigh

that now ripples

with the blood 

or navel orange’s

silent ache—

as if only until dawn,

as if only until 

a few filaments

feel prone to rise or fall 

as a brush of red incarnate

on an inch of open neck.

A little song

 YET NEARLY ON MY KNEES

O thing that in the cemetery sings, why

Did your eye often circle a Cuban cigar 

Which flared in the hand of a man from Hartford?

The cemetery as almost a veil of peace,

But your deadly tale at most a flair of violins.

It seems a tail that apophanies pieces

Of things which certain eyes may have lost.

A bird sings, and what tale doesn’t veer off ?

As the cigar burns, the epiphany feels urned.

And any cemetery could be a vale of curtained eyes

As a key of this scale involves a curtain of fire.

O peacock that in the cemetery sings, is it Jazz

When your cry loves or leaves circles of something 

Which whitens the cigars of men into ash?