He stood at the window
Hoodie unzipped
& hair a mess
As the snow fell

He thought
“Wow, you’re a
hundred miles away.
Do you even remember
my name?”

Yours is carved
Deep in my veins

“Can I extract it?”

Pull the power out like
Rolling blackouts
Free for ten minutes
Or maybe it was fifteen

I remember itchy red eyes laying awake to daydream of you,
Waiting by the rotary phone .......
It rings ...
My heart's in my throat......
I lean on one elbow
super smug mug.
Avocado green plush rug.......
Jazzy radio deep voice
Like cool crushed velvet
I speak right into your ear .
Hellllllllo?
Uhhhm what....
No I don't want to take a survey  
.........
Dammmm it
Slam the phone ......
Then fold my hands under my head .......
Smile , cross my feet and stretch
And pick up where I left off.

Lost in love with you
On a hot august night  ...
I fantasize about ..
You fantasizing about menow I fantasize that I could go back to those days and catch a feeling or two.........

Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.

Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.

A knife cuts clean the jugular of Greece,
Sun-shattered Autumn spurts in breezes,
Her face falls like crumpled sails of the trireme
~This is the sound of sinking clouds, mammatus~
The slow tottering head sinks into itself,
The arm of once-command lies lengthwise
Next to the sea, as waves erase all her form,
And the drear and maddened moon in its cage of stars.

freckled cheeks / soft decibels

dress wearing
wine taster
dreamcatching
manhunter

an attraction
to green and yellow
an aversion to blue

an imprint of her muted form
under a name that hides her

she often lies there
in a shimmer
a bit of a sleeping beauty

in the pleasing shape
of Wisconsin / Illinois

whose charms
are revealed
like arcane secrets
only to those
with patience,
persistence,
and a lack of proximity
to heavy machinery

I am the Empire in the last of its decline,
That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while
Composing indolent acrostics, in a style
Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line. -Paul Verlaine, "Melancholy"


I am the Empire, in decline.
The elm tree is yellowing;
the rain-arm is broadcasting
from the cloud station.

I am the once-loved voice,
now a tired smear of memory;
the ghost of a market thrill,
a bed of smoke, a red register.

I am the Barbarian, grown fat
after the stuttering blonde pyres
are stilled: finger-flickers of ash.
I am the white noise nocturne

after the rerun is over.
I am the cathode ray,
the scent in the glass.
I am the Empire, in decline.

is a circle.
The
minefield of
breathing.

I inhale.

The rasp of a door

hinge.

Gone to rust.

Pieces of
time.

Jigged thoughts…

clang of
chains.

Soggy Days.

Lie wet
leaves.

Rain..

The air pushed.

Behind me a
young woman

falls.


Caroline Shank
9.24.22

L-,

It's a lonely acid evening,
citric-salted, hung like a skin

on headlights that rise
& split into orange antlers.

A woman screams "Barry!"
into the alley, over and over,

until night climbs over her
with black, grinding knees.

Sweet Saturday carvings
are Sunday's rack and bone:

after your lobby debut
(your eyes fine as sea-thread)

you spun away, you are still spinning.
The heart's ever-after is knotted:

I thin you with gin, smear
that clever flash of teeth and lip

into the cold hollows of air
that clot the mid-month.

Listen: the alley woman
gave up on Barry.

Yours,
E-