Beneath the arch,
        among the branches,
      the maunder of her eyes
           finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
    explicit and indivisible,
        every reflection is her,
      there she looks close
       for gracefulness,
            in the essays of her skin
               and their brazen transparencies,
         she enters into her body fable,
      the shape of her resembles
           the tenor viol: where it widens,
                  where it narrows,
                where it digresses
              and monochromes,
           she reflects a fragile geography,
             a soft cargo, but
               an inkling of hurricane,
             rendering the fault lines
          beautiful and strong,
       in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
   until she's become her own lullaby

~
alone and an imposter,
deep in syndrome.

she absorbs the frost of seasonal ghosts
and hopeless feelings
of death and darkness.

she only shows one side of her every time.
she calls a random number
from a bar in the middle of the night,
seeking to confess
or find solace in the voice of a stranger.

but any stranger might just happen to be
a lie detector.

still she lays bare all the duplicity
and fragmentation of self:

prescription bottles with two different names,
elaborate façades in Los Angeles
and in New York,
so complicated she creates
something she calls the lie box.

inside her purse there's a collection
of file cards. "I tell so many lies," she says.
"I have to write them down and keep them
in a box so I can keep them straight."

alone she waits for either
sweet apricity or identikit:
each a memento of her faces.
~

According to a new
Conspiracy theory,
The last season of
Game of Thrones
Never happened.

I remember the Fall
I remember the bokeh

Placed in a vase and kept by our bedroom
window

It took your breath away, fed off your lungs
and grew so monstrous by dark

We tried in vain to replace what was lost
with the artificial:

Albuterol haze, Gaussian distribution

It failed, as you know

And I too fell within the blur of the rebound effect,
struggling to keep from panic

Then rang alarums that lay-in-wait, then came red lights,
then came shouting for help

You laid on the livingroom floor, intubated

Life nearly snuffed out

Me in tremors, two cats hiding

You would survive, but neither of us would
ever be the people before

Clearly, not all blur is equal, each has its own aesthetic quality

Mine tends to fall under the umbrella of disturbing thought patterns

We each reflect on different things
about that day

My fail-safe is trying not to remember at all

born of insects and grass
in deep hue -- as purple as the gin blossom
climbing for new altitudes
the wall breaks inside of me
I fall through the forest floor
and into the ocean of sky
all the places I go are in freefall
but there's a reappearing rhythm

heart is a drum
heart is a drum
and it will join the dots of
a prayer remembered
(the fierce words of a holy sonnet)
consoling me in its shadow
when the turbulent, inverted plane
could no longer hold itself together

~
The day was orange
The word is yellow
Out like a light switch
Teeth a steady glow

The projectile's
Crisscross trajectory
Is no kindness

In the catacombs of this mine
Watch it leak
Watch it settle

What remains is
Subterranea, urania
Built to last
A moment to inhale
Before fade to black
~

~
The arithmetic of murky waters
Is not so clear

Neither are my chances of survival

Here is me
Face down in urgent sea

My wave
My grave
My gateway, perhaps

Whatever the consequence
Suffering is the new salvation

It all adds up
Sum how?
Sum way?

And if I was your ship
Destined to flounder
In the wide open drink

You'd re-enter the equation
And find a way to pull me through

Just so we could once more
Make the hurting count
~

Ever since I moved to a different time period, I get the strangest mail.

Letters commissioning Michelangelo
to paint the Sistine Chapel.

Elizabeth Bennet's missive to her aunt
promising pony cart rides at Pemberley.

Long lost IRS tax forms belonging to Abbott and Costello.

Leonardo Da Vinci’s Job Application to the Duke of Milan.

Even Grace Bedell's charming correspondence to Abraham Lincoln, suggesting he grow a beard.

I should have known something was up once I discovered Karl Malone was my mailman.