Bird booking
We talked into the evening,
about her birding adventures
and I told her I had heard
just this morning
a Chuck will’s widow,
calling the dark home,
And how its song
seemed to wrap the quiet
last suspiration of night
with its haunting echo
of something like
a dream not quite
remembered when
daybreak demands
we make up the bed
and place the unfinished
narrative, a memory
under the feather pillow,
hoping to coax back
its elusive images
to book later.
On the other hand
On ink splashed
words, and shapes
we disagreed
about the value
of negative space,
I said (for example)
that the lace
was defined by threads
that wove a grand design
and you declared that the universe
was more or less about the isn’t
of what was there,
Of course it seems
two appositive truths
can occupy the same meaning
like you and I, good friends,
could interpret ourselves
by the shapes of our differences
and rorschach at the same alter
of desire but still not see
each other at all.
poise
her face was haloed
in silver a placid disk
above her bugle beaded
midnight blue heavenly bosom,
where the sparkling constellations
scattered in a charge
against her applied
indifference.
keeping
her good side
towards the cameras,
she circled the room,
universally sardonically
interpreting the response
she rolled a slow smile,
smoked them with her eyes’
blink, flash
image