Dear Old Love

It’s not very nice to meet you.
I can almost feel my phantom limb aching.
You find the old bruise that blooms under my skin
and slot your fingers unerringly in the imprint that remains;
a tentative cartography we never inhabited.

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Regression

At
a quarter past twelve
a night when the weak winter is softening
wind coming in from the west
secretive trees rub their hands together
another pair of socks would be good.

the sweetness of the littlest peas
fuzzy around the edges with caterpillar dust
dying bougainvillea flowers
red ants climbed steadily from the ground
there are errant hairs everywhere.

Happy New Year

Time is unreal
Although calendars appeal
To the sense of a reveal
So we want them to unveil
Each month in detail
And what the dates may entail:
Birthdays, holidays, fasts and feasts
But when we expect it the least
Pain, heartbreak and occasional disease
Reminds us that we are just drifting
Organic matter that is scripting
their names on the shifting
Sands of the universe.

Owl’s Well.

I add to it a little bit everyday.
A drawing of an owl, cartoon-startled, on a gnarled tree.
Mostly because trees are hard to draw with all their leaves and lives
but sometimes in the quiet of a sad, sad night
I add a few leaves to the owl’s bony perch.
It begins to look less startled and more and more like it’s watching;
perfectly still and silent and soft feathers.
Today I added a thick trunk behind it
a few swirls and lines of bark and a whole inflorescence of leaves;
My owl’s real-estate opportunities are growing.
Someday this could be a real forest,
swirling around that lonely old tree.

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23.

The thunder sounds like a flyover crumbling to dust
silent-puff atom-bomb collapse
The lightning cracks overhead like a blown fuse
hiss-fuck torch fumbling
The rain patters down like gossip behind your back
look-ignore care too deeply

Storms upset me more these days