Clouds and Trees

"Nothing ever goes away enough or arrives enough,/ and I want to cry when I think of my heart,/ muscle pounding in muscle, greedy always for joy." – 'A Warning', Eric Anderson

Month: January, 2012

Figures, Speech

Bare shoulders.
Mirror frame.
Bed sheets.
Window panes.

. . .

Pieces of things are never all
you see. Through a door-frame—
the whole room is visible and isn’t.

Pieces, trapped within the bodies
they imply. Inescapable spaces—
beds and rooms inhabited.

. . .

I see her in the mirror.
The look on her face.
Love is a thing you are in
or out of.



This summer has been perfect, hot enough
to burn away all memory of spring.
I step a little blind through the screen door.
To my eyes – an ocean, distorted grass.

White hydrangeas blemish the little lawn.
They petrify like wood. Mom collects them.
I watch the cat roll around and chew grass.
Later he’ll dig holes to cover his scent.

Our driveway cracks and crumbles to pieces,
the car always kicks them into the yard.
I see shades of my house stripped by the wind.
I can’t watch. All I know shrinks into dust.