Hank Archer
Again Someone Is
talking talking and
my reaction is just nod nod agree because momentarily I'm lying on a sheet of waterleaf with you overtop the summer sun shining shining through the blanket and your hair and nothing else Ready!
When we are in the same space
usually separated by a crowd secretly I steel myself just in case this time you decide improbably from across the room to leap into my arms |
Warm Goodbye
You offer to kiss
the night guard if he’ll let us in for an after hours viewing of Dali’s Meditative Rose Ten minutes later even my jealousy cannot out stroke my awe as before the painting you take my hand and press it artfully against your thigh
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Gray Birds
In the land of vigorous death
I too have forgotten that we sleep. After Dinner
Somewhere in a bowl of pears
peeled in a rush my green thumb's tip
|
O Painter!
Here comes the artist to his own funeral. He’s brought a canvas for the occasion: carnations across a table and fresh pears. He walked from two towns over, crossed a river, gathered courage to overcome the swamp. Now he has arrived; tired, spent, with dust, impatient for the ceremony to begin. This is a man who will not sleep until it’s over, sitting in the final pew, head bowed and fingers laced as if in prayer, meditating on all the breaths he will regret not having drawn.