O, Magnolia in my window frame,
every spring turns out the same.
At time of bloom, it also rains —
your blossoms last a single day!
Ambling in limbo
illiterate and alien
wary of pregnant pauses
she drags her shadow
heavy as luggage
over miles of gravel
leaning over ledges
to air dirty laundry
as her insides tumble
down spiral staircases
shiny white air
burns paper lungs
own reflection against
the river cleaving
clear to the bottom
and slim swimmers
slice straight paths
The winter stopped coming around
so we must read Ted Hughes aloud.
It’s not so unlike frost – the sounds
his words make as they freeze the ground
and then ascend as icy clouds.
I spent the day disturbing anthills,
so that I could feel like God.
In the end it proved too easy,
and I almost nodded off.
The ineffable sadness of an exiled aristocrat
with El Greco eyes reading War and Peace
while the Neiman Marcus wives redecorate
and hungry wildcats roam chessboard plains.
Sunburned blue blood, should’ve worn a hat.
Landlocked, but there’s still seagulls
floating on the cold morning wind
and crowding thin black puddles
in the Shopper’s World parking lot
that sits empty most days.
A police car drives by once, twice.
He’s watching me watching the seagulls,
trying to determine what the trouble is,
She winds her watch daily while holding their baby,
Then sings lullabies until spent, silent, and still,
Eyes closed, wrist to ear, the only sound she hears:
Footsteps in a vast hallway.