Euterpe or Erato—I Forget Which

No thanks

to my muse, mean witch,

no pearls
but those I dive for myself. 

Remaking

Away from the iron 

teeth of the stone-

eyed predators, away 

from their grinding gears, 

we’ll sink into a rose-
tinctured world of our own 

making. We’ll know only softness –

lips, thighs and dreams.

Moon-cold, My Sweet

I must remind myself to hate

in portions and to love impetuously

only as much as the moment demands.

Surrendering to either destroys the self

or worse…

From my window, the moon ruminates

coldly on the sinfully muted city

and I on warmer days,

and how little they meant to you. 

Counting

Knowing only adds to the tragedy

that each blessed second is more cursed

than any before. For each 

greening leaf that affirms its value 
through beauty, a peony

is counting lost petals,

and the beauty who swung by you,

serving jazzy notes to the street,

is shriveled like despair,

and the thrill you shared with her

is a lump in her throat. 

Hunger

You’re the wraith in the plain

where the wind plays a lonely note.

You have said the words, bathed

in milk midstream, made

plain your hunger to the forest

of your forefathers. But   

                                                               

the seal remains unbroken.

The seer has foreseen it;

your life line is long and strong

but the cosmos holds captive your star –

your empty note wails across the barren. 

Imagining Him Happy

What is waking

for Sisyphus? who knows by now

that the boulder will roll down again,

that he must roll it up the hill again.

He no longer curses the stupidity

of the gods, their infantility.

He’s traded in his

apathy for ambition –

a blind boiling for a perfect trip.

Eventually, you gather that the grind

is as eternal as the blackness of space, that

the small mercy of stars

shall not stir the enormity of your sky. And

from its cold stone you cull

a twisted pleasure, the cool

tickle of sweat

down your back in the blackness.   

Clunk

All it does is a clunker. Still,
     the hammer loves the anvil

as only it can…