paul-s-eifertWhisper

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Demolition DayRusty nail by rusty nail the floors come down. Floor by floor / the old men of the old town slip away, and leave old shells / like the stone bread of Pompey. We board these windows

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Kitchen TalkThe bloom of the cut rose / leaks into the water glass. / She fixes breakfast.

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Triumphal MarchButterflies kiss the sage, where sun drips off primrose / into mute lily horns who know but cannot say: / This is the day. In yonder Sycamore a cardinal's question

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Speaking TonguesI am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill / hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead / detritus from the yard and put to match some old

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Stone Faced MoonI am sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon / looking in through the gray above the green / hanging over the black shingle roof

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SaxophoneI can't play no saxophone / but I can hear it played. / Sometimes it's a lady sighin;

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The SurrendurQuietly the shadows grew one into another as the day withdrew / softly from the hollows of the trees until at last it stood / far away. The night crept up the lawns and rested

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Babylonian ExileThe houses of my Babylon lean upon each other. / They will not fall, not until the last hard hand / quits the last hammer, not until misfortune

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Meet Me at CupsWe were serene at a coffee house in the antebellum. / Vanilla latte plain dark roast art in pastel chalks / of little sense to me you drawn to impermanent faces

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Of BeliefInsincere December sun promised warmth / never given, the look of warmth cruel beauty, / the icy stare of soft hazel eyes, the cold touch

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