A New Moon Intention
The way soft white wheat burns
to death in the sun, or
how dried cherry skins unfurl
when sucked by the cool
mint of spring rain, I wish for you
to bloom and let go, a faint whiff
of sea air flapping on the clothesline.
The Sturgeon
The mechanics of suffering
is not so daunting to understand
that it hurts for a while—
gums and bellies pierced by
an unseen passion… and then it is done;
the savoury-sweet, cherry cough syrup scent
of death dries and disappears, leaving
only impressions in the ample depth of sand.
Collectibles
at least he remembered
the salt-sprayed breeze
on their patio in Red Bank
the patio with the pistachio green
umbrella, talking about the sailboats
and sipping raspberry-peach iced tea
wondering out loud… how a sunset
could look so much like candle wax
melting on the floor of an old attic
a few drops of citrus oil was all it took
The Beggar
Fresh as the sour dampness of sawed-off grass cutting,
or pigtailed linen pulled from the dryer, I receive this moment,
this warm awareness; nearby, a child sticks painted toes
in the sand, as charred wood burns slow and cool over beach fire.
Creation
Long after the rules of magic,
a lush smoke of pipe tobacco
rises from the dried leaves,
prayers cast in the black and oily birth light.
How Death Lingers
I once heard a cop from Flint say it’s been a long time since a dead body bothered him.
Blood like prune juice. Butter-soft leather fingers. Blackened oak eyes.
Big round tears of sultanas draped in honey. Blonde hazelnut hair on my shoulders. You bother me still.
Every second, your death is aromatic, the way grandma’s potpourri smelled when she mixed it in those wooden bowls
of orange peel; soon the warm aroma of fresh-baked cookies drifts in the opposite direction.
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image: George Payne
