Friday, May 10, 2019

Calypso's Tears

He was false,
  but dawn rested
 on his word.

No Adonis,
    but he snared
 with net surer
   than Hephaestus'.

His arms warmly
    received me.

  With words sweet
as curséd pomegranates
   his cool breath
    stole into me.

This song
  runs aground
damp cheeks.

To him it was.
In me a sunken whisper remains,

         As the white mote grows fainter
                on monotonous blue.


Tuesday, May 07, 2019


One "t" bends knees, a plaintive close of eyes--canticle of delicate gestures. 

Monday, April 29, 2019

Monday, February 11, 2019

From a Terrace (Aosta)

Sleek hair spills cursive on skin,
hue cinnabar scent hyacinth,
spells forms pliant.

                                     Bise kiss gusting
                                     as light tucks wing
                                     to brisk evening.