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.