in the evening
letting in afternoon’s
easiest light
filtering rays
sepia toned
know what
the day has been
the sun is not ready
to set entirely
it rests on the sill
comfortably
listening to evensong
tertia, sexta, nona
the hours in June
flirting with dusk
sight unfailing
lines run through
battles won and lost
time fades slowly
the distant drop
supported by years
still to come
in evening everlast
Fingerling
Wicker baskets
full of fancy spuds
on busy weekends
at farmers’ markets
tempt tasters.
Russian banana:
firm textured;
Purple Peruvian:
mealy fleshed;
Red thumbed:
pretty plate.
Roast’d, saute’d, boil’d,
butter’d, salt’d, pepper’d;
maybe a little virgin
olive oil and fresh garlic.
Pomme de terre-
apple of the earth,
seeing it on display,
imagining you in life,
I pick the one I want
a la dente.
Mother's Spring
On a rainy morning
she blinks slowly-
tears collecting in the corner
of her eye spilling out
over the slick asphalt
my tires roll across.
In daylight colored gray,
her soft green leaves
fluff in the wind
that will tear down
fleshy red tulip petals
previewed last week.
The rain will go away
but not before the
lay of the land is
surveyed, dug up,
and entrance’d by
the mighty gale force
that she often wields
with a strong steady,
sometimes sleepy yawn.
Out to Sea
A wave hits
from behind
and pulls me
into the surf.
Salt tears sweep
my cheeks-
my hands
cover my eyes,
pull them
across my face
like a dead sea mask.
I want to tell him
that I love him,
but the undertow
takes him out.
The Mantle Clock
The mantle clock has raced ahead
twenty minutes,
it insists on living faster than me
tic toc tic toc’ing.
Here in stuck, I wonder what happens
in the time
warp that sits between me and the
walnut wood.
If I had twenty minutes,
I’d sort through the mail,
or wash the kitchen floor,
or put away the laundry.
Instead, papers aren't graded,
dishes aren't in the way,
books are happy alone,
and the couch is lonely.
The mantle clock has raced ahead
twenty minutes,
it is tic toc tic toc’ing faster than
I imagined when
it came from the Netherlands where it
lived before,
maybe it’s the time change that has
it off-kilter.
But I’m soothed by the
knock of pendulum, and
the click that indicates
that chords will be struck.
Tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,
the sound has moved in,
settled amongst my things,
waiting for me to catch up.
The mantle clock has raced ahead
twenty minutes,
it has left me in the dust that
covers the floor,
its solemness the requiem for the
minutes I lost
since the day five ago that I last
wound it up.
Thread
I stuck my hand
in his jacketed armpit:
shirted, t-shirted, still-
I was in.
Desire twines
every thought,
tender tendrils,
circling climb.
His pit was warm,
somewhat surprising,
his response to
physical such that
would suggest cool.
What was I doing
there with sirens
and a net he’d
find a hole in.
I pulled my hand out
clutching fibers
from its woolen vice
reluctantly curling
into a tight coil-
left weaving
thread together.
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