Sunday, May 29, 2016

A Rose

It didn't last long.
First the leaves yellow and fold
like pages of a book
 caught in a rainstorm.
Then the petals age,
lose their perfect texture
and look more like skin,
familiar with the hard work
of being mortal. They resemble
a map folded so many times
the creases are part of the landscape.
But the red stays red
except for a touch of black
at the edges. That's it.
I threw it out
and washed the glass it was in.
Memory and memory's accomplice
where perfection is a photograph
remembered, but misplaced.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016


The only light still lit
in the motel sign across the street.
A long path with many turns,
the gypsy said — or someone
pretending to be a gypsy —
15 years ago. An old Italian woman
said: you will meet a beautiful woman
with a scar on her cheek.
Yes. Go on. She will take
something valuable from you.
Nothing unusual
there. Except the beautiful part.
Her initials are M...
Yes? I can say no more.
The reading is over. And with that
she closed the metal door
covering her storefront.
Is that all I get?
One initial and a scar?
In the street I can hear people
laughing as they head
from the beach to their hotels.
Did I mention that it was a beach town
and the son of the "gypsy"
owned the pizza store
next door? I can't remember
their name. It began with...


Bird. Nest. Tree.
Cloud. Rock. Rain.
Cloud. No rock. More rain.
Bird. Bird. Nest.
Window. Curtain. Shadow.
Window. Curtain. No shadow.
Night. No bird. No tree.
No tree. No bird. No night.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Sleep. Sleep. Alarm.
Eye. Curtain Coffee.
Tree. Nest. Bird.