The Storm Moves Out

The Storm Moves Out

pale violet
the storm moves out to sea

I look for signs
in the arranged debris

montage of a divine hand

the swamped streets
bring the latest obsession
my way

string-of-beads prophecies
in the 
forest of home

glass wreckage
embryo shards

a priest blesses specimen jars
sending kisses into sleep




The tin voice announced the place
as we pulled into the station.
I, soon to have my ears syringed,
thought it said "Ladies and gentlemen:
Marilyn Monroe."
I half expected to see her
sashaying down the aisle 
of the train,
all shimmering platinum
between plush, navy blue seats.
Wouldn't that have been a sight 
for a Thursday morning?
Not only a Hollywood star,
but fifty-five years dead to boot.




The Sun Stays High

The Sun Stays High

A breeze gets up amid placid dreams,
attracting the eyes of languid hosts.
The sudden movement draws them out.

An old man wilts like a flower,
his strength sapped by countless summers.
His skin taut, tanned leather.

The children play on, reddened rogues,
among the scrub, with salted lips.
Shaded by their ceaseless scorn.

Wooden wind chimes, glockenspiels,
induce a torpid, cloaking down.
The sun stays high, consolidates.