occurrence of the day
in veils, whir
of the hospital
laundry mat. Whirring.
bitter with pearls.
Ball bearings, wood,
ball bearings. A meal,
circle of the radio dial
ending, twice. Noon’s
hoof. Coins, on a table,
an unworn lorgnette. Initials
carved into the wood
of wood. Unaltered
in the colander, eggs.
Rain drops transmitted
via piano wire do
Nostril, bone hole,
as in birds. Blood
light bulb and black marker
minuscule, public restroom.
For the wicked. Martens,
cars, wraiths. Assemblies
of shadows, cordillera.
If categorized, all
gradations of black–
Milk of magnesia.
aliyah of chimeras.
Paramour’s first regret,
blade of departure. Ice,
leaf vein, meandering, flame,
acetylene shakes. Coats,
moth-lined and great. Bouillon
cubes in a box. Suicides,
wind chimes’ stories. Steeped
tea. Rosewood, bergamot,
From silver samovars,
caviar. Fish skulls, eggshells,
coffee grounds, rinds,
in the garden, planted nails.
of exes and spots
the last of the summer flies
buzz in circles on the window sill.
Their evasion of months of cobwebs
and fan blades have earned them
this much. A final hurrah at the warped
window panes, the manic whir
of their magnetic wings;
they drop like anise seeds
and dry into caskets of lint in the light
of late November. They suspected the air
outside was warmer when it wasn’t.
Heat being a factor of magnification.
The physics of glass, sun, and angle
stir the soup of air as invisible as chopsticks.
When the physics of memory
and tables of elements lie.
Same as ever
belladonna casts off her batik scarves
and the fields outside wash to ochre,
umber, sienna, sepia, dun; (sash
weights ripening inside the walls)
a knocking heard from within. Outside
the harvest’s opulence of gourd and blackberry
is revealed by the naked black limbs
of the trees gesture to the lovers
walking their dog up the grass hill where
there is an acorn tree and a hundred
and sixty degree view.
Portraiture of cities,
or knots in the tails of kites,
trail vines of smoke that empty off clouds
or shadows of clouds lit up like war.
The radio tower’s aerials blink
their single red eyes
to the contrails of jets
that are trying to spell
From that day, one vow deliriously broken. Waking
state: when eyes are naturally chameleon-like
and the alarm, merely a type, that once levitated
Byzantine emperors, now confined to a dumb metal
ringing, really a cry for help. Another day, oncoming.
To, or not, butter the hair. Breakfast of dried palm leaves.
Tea with milk, on the balcony, above the city-fresco
too many times well-captured in paintings modern
and classic, of a certain middle terranean school,
struck with a polluted haze. Bored commuters
graduated to solitude of their singular cars, moveable
coffins, free to groom themselves at every third
traffic light. She carried with her an ague of the
heart. Never to ease, alone cease, with baths of jazz,
lavender water, milk of roses. Like the haunted
in a badly written story, naiveté is believed with a dash
of over-desired suspense. Perhaps this time it’s
a mummy in the grandfather clock not disappearing
with each stroke of time. Counting, as if it ends.
Colored either bright red, or red gone orange, when
poppies cease to bloom, hats become sought out
from stores of fashionable repute. Rain holds its own
therapeutic value. Coldness. Downpours separate one sea
from another, one Ligurian, the other, not. What’s
left to be built in a day. Pasquinades, a greatcoat,
the number plate of some obscure lodging. Something
shared in common by us, buildings, angels, weather. Falls.
coins left on a plastic gin blossom cigarette scarred bench, near a pay phone, bus station
coins thrown, dropped, or left in any park fountain eyed mysteriously, greedily, by children
coins the color of the sea found within the failed cobblestone street of the river beach
coins unattended on the pool table shining resplendent in hopes to attract woman flies
coins tucked into cards specifically made for card coin tucking
coins mettle tested by the old man’s remaining teeth old bullets shot in the ground
coins left on the formica table top for a waitress named Sandra mimicking her black eye
coins given at halloween to unsuspecting and until that night, apple haters
coins dropped into the busy city street, with miscellaneous rubbish, cleverly evading rust
coins collected and never spent as hats bought and only wished to be worn
coins that thought they were merely tokens so lived a life of reasonless, sexless, solitude
coins or lilies of-the-valley sold by street vendors both envying shade bought by umbrellas
coins without banks and nowhere else to go coinS cOins Coins coIns coins coins
She wore her lipstick like an off-centered kiss. She wore her lipstick like a misplaced LOVE stamp. She wore her lipstick like a bird would its newly sharpened beak. She wore her lipstick like pancake syrup (Mrs. Butterworth’s). She wore her lipstick like curdled wine. She wore her lipstick with an aftertaste of his collar’s starch. She wore her lipstick as a blue sunset tipped over inkwell. She wore her lipstick as a dual rash/blemish. She wore her lipstick as rose petals dried in the leaves of a dictionary. She wore her lipstick like a recently sucked tootsie pop (shooting injun on the wrapper). She wore her lipstick as she did the slight wax of his inner ear. She wore her lipstick like fresh gummy worms. She wore her lipstick in velvet theater curtains barely parted. She wore her lipstick as the night percolates glue. She wore her lipstick with a tinge of cinnamon burnt toothpicks. She wore her lipstick like duck’s blood soup. She wore her lipstick as a handless watch of her oral desire. With her lipstick she wore baubles of invisible spittle. She wore her lipstick like a man kisses a mirror. She wore her lipstick as the bridle of her lover’s finger. She wore her lipstick like a jack-o-lantern never could. She wore her lipstick as newly birthed starfish. She wore her lipstick like a tongue she couldn’t hide. She wore her lipstick like a thorn in a tango dancer’s shoe. She wore her lipstick like marbles in a blender. She wore her lipstick as crimsoned autumn leaflets. She wore her lipstick a tightly tied shoelace the hue of cut-off circulation. She wore her lipstick in a mood of overripe fruit. She wore her lipstick as a foot does its habitual nudity. She wore her lipstick a malted’s striped straw. She wore her lipstick as one would her fleshy rood. She wore her lipstick as a valentine for whom. She wore her lipstick as much as her lipstick wore her. She wore her lipstick as cigarette butt return addresses. She wore her lipstick as a mouthflower, a lovesmudge, genital peppermint. She wore her
lipstick stuck like candy apple goo. She wore her lipstick in two shades of lip. She wore her lipstick like asses awkwardly smooch chairs. She wore her lipstick like raspberries kept in a change pocket.