The Storm Moves Out
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
forest of home
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:
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.
Twilight is a truly mystical time.
To taste the sublime,
feel the caress,
Hey Bobbie Gentry
where did you go?
There’s a guy over in Collyhurst
who’d really like to know.
It’s always when he’s on a bridge
that he feels so.
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.