on my way back
I stopped to let
an injured duck limp
across the street
its hobbling brought to mind
my helplessness
in regards to most
wounded things
on my way back
I stopped to let
an injured duck limp
across the street
its hobbling brought to mind
my helplessness
in regards to most
wounded things
each January the silver maple hums
with bees, as soon as the new
buds of leaves are opening
today what i needed
was frivolous but you
still treated it delicately
like precious cloth draped across
your outstretched arms
i have the taste for it –
salty and rough against my tongue.
how can i describe the taste
of salt – it tastes of beachwater
and failure. my desire
to get even is like this,
like water trapped in the ear
after a hard wave. i shake my head
and stomp my feet but stubbornly
it remains, like the bubble in a level
off-kilter. i have the taste for it –
but not the stomach.
red lipstick
they say red lipstick
past 40 is a bad idea
but bad ideas past 40
are usually the best ones
everything takes longer now
to accomplish and is sweeter
because of this
it is not the sleeping
i try to avoid, but the waking
into another day of starting over
when it seems i just finished
this one –
i want to enjoy its conclusion
a little longer, one more hour
of quiet accomplishment
before the alarm
even the optometrist today
is appalled by my lack of vision