"The wind rustles the forget-me-nots
In the many balcony flower boxes
And so the shrieks of foxes
lose their distance."
finding her bearings.
Fiddling her earrings
******* cardamom pods
And smoking licorice black cigarettes
Her lips faintly popping as the smoke escapes,
And reflecting how she’s been
As lucky as lavender isn’t.
"the wind sharpens the beach dunes
flutters my tangerine towel,"
"fills my little girl's glitter-gel shoes"
She rubs it out before she sets it down,
sharpening her eraser.
Settling her glass
Her cigarette smokes on its own in the ashtray
a straight grey line caught in the breezes
from the door frame and under the floorboards,
like a seismograph recording of a dancer’s hips
or like any sound man could ever consider making,
escaping up to heaven from the tip of Babel.
She takes back her black ***
Before any more paper evaporates.
Her poems are great shipping tanker oil spills
hoping the reader feels their lips
mouthing kisses along with it.
"no one ever really tastes
one another on theirs,
weak as the smell
of potent *****."
Now the wind's at the window,
disturbing a spider
as falling snow
into the ashtray.
A lifetime of weary acceptance of tragedy.
Playing with page placement, I wanted people to imagine there was a line of cigarette smoke running straight up it's center, or a spider abseiling down on a thread, separating the real from the poem.