Lady in Lace

I snap open the window
of the small airplane tipping to and fro,
and see the Sierra mountains.
Clouds pull across the craggy peaks like
a bride’s veil on a windy day,
her lips rocking up and down,
her eyes a drought of tears.
Hooves on stones drive
towards the white church
where a river once ran.
Some miles away, snow-knotted socks
lay upon a coal burning stove
as melted water taps onto fresh pine floors.
Fool’s gold rattles in a rusted pan,
falling between dirty fingers,
which grapple the breast of a whore
and long for the lady in lace
who he will never marry
since she is now with another.
I shut my window,
and the plane passes over
these time-trapped shadows.

Today’s Star

Who were we to each other
once upon a time,
long before we sat in this circle
on the grass talking of
sunshine and wine?
Perhaps we looked
upward to a star
named Trappist
and settled upon our drums,
striking the snares with precision
to tell the skies
we’d been here before
and would be here again,
in this place
and those to come.
Hold onto your memory,
you whose smile is strained,
eyes haunted,
for I see what you do.
This storied day
is the one that
always repeats.

Pitch Black

Incoherent scattered thoughts
under a moonless night
where I cannot see shape or shadow
moving on a frosted roof.

My breath is both frozen and warm
because it is winter and summer
on the black rubber roof
where I spy the moon
as big as a flying saucer
and as shapely as a cat’s eye.

I perceive that night too,
when we we reach our arms
towards the starry sky
and lean into the elemental traction
which pulls us upwards,
on a boat drifting through Deutschland.

For time moves in all directions,
here under this pitch black sky.