"samothrace" poems
You, clipped little fragments
divided and crumbled
as the asymmetrical pinions
of the Winged Samothrace,
I spoke ****** soft spoken”
unedited, fluid, effortless,
aroused by Fortune
and I was christened
within rapture, your creator’s
“poisoned wounds” and “secret pains”
electrifying my heart and mind
inspiring such a preface
such a volatile violet passion
and I am moved by this color
by this flower
by this name
those fragrances still pouring
centuries after decimated
marble, demolished syllables
slaughtered by gender or genius
status or progression
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
In the Paris giftshop
the one deep wing
of the vermilion angel
lanced the outer dark.
Outside,
draping olive lines
scattered and resolved
abstractly as trees.
The world was
filled with
incompleteness.
Back home,
with the second wife,
the night was fragrant
with barbeque,
nicotine,
& vetiver.
Having no direction,
I drifted into
the smoking rain.
Years later
there is an arrival
that thickens like glass,
a transparency,
a screen that flickers.
It's her, and
she's red-orange too.
An investment,
a face in gold leaf,
a pale labyrinth.
This time,
years later,
the deep wing
is a drifting veil,
and the olive line
connects us
like boardwalk string.
The glow of the glass
is a resolution.
The Winged Nike
of Samothrace
is installed inside me:
first the anxiety
of the reach,
straining for more.
Then the frozen music,
the perfect shape, even
with pieces missing.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 11:10 AM UTC