Thursday, December 01, 2022

Cercamoan

When the sweet air turns bitter

dogs bark in Occitan

and cats purr in Plattdeutsch.

Birds sing sotto voce.

My lungs, like plucked lyres,

rustle like threads thru dead leaves.


Mother has a hole in her abdomen

the size of a pugilist's fist with

the face of Jupiter's hurricane.


When the sweet air turns bitter

I sing about dogs and cats

with lost tongues as the hurricane's

bloodshot eye burns dead leaves.


Thursday, October 20, 2022

Dose Oubli

Roused automata,

host on dresser top,

daily Matin's hushed Mass

hums discreetly from

Arisarum vulgare


Numbing Liturgy,

my tiny hand unsure

as ears brim with

Angels' chorus


I suspect the Auto da fé,

a petit mort that grows

with every step away

from host's home.


Tuesday, September 13, 2022

Sunstroke Moon

 



"Le Temps met Septembre en sa hotte,/Adieu, les clairs matins d'été..."

Wednesday, August 24, 2022

Angel , Duchess of the Sidewalks

 

"..for we are all children of one breast, teasing each other, squabbling, but still unable to separate."