Poetry
I didn’t know/
one went grey down there too.
A row of corrugated gray huts/
hunkering down in the November rain./
Across the way the fire burns night and day
I stand before the painting a decade and a half/
before I am transformed. Oil on wood panel/
lush in detail—blood curdling into script, black velvet gown,
It is not advertised on the pill bottle, merely mentioned/
in the product description from the drug store.
That night, I dreamed of a city older than knowledge/
Dreamed of Serratia, climbed up from the soil
Left, my bright half, gets all of it…/
soft sharp prickly wet lined./
But press your head against my right shoulder,/
I sense weight but no warmth.
Her lovely face captured the one/
available male in the old folks’ home./
She’s found, at long last, Mr. Right
1. Eat When You Can. Sleep When You Can./
With the pad of my finger I collect crumb/
after crumb like a hopeful, disappearing braille.