As large as life

stopped at a light i saw in slow seconds herself in bliss with eyes half closed in quiet crescents her hem in hand as if to shoo nipping cats watch the puddles dear you are out of this world but i pray for yours

Leading the blind

This blind alley The horde of the golden calf carries its standard on high Lemmings thinking they are lions while the meek and considered are too quiet too long Condemned to repeat lessons unlearned


A diving moth caught in venetian rays, like a bedside meteor. In soreness of spirit, I chew on thoughts of old romancers, closet dancers.  

I don’t deny

I look up rugs and pads. Imagine measurements and the weight of heavy things. A spoonful of white dwarf. An anchor. To be here, and not to fly.

The thin cat thinks

All bony and moany, on hollow stilts he walks, stumbling to a slow pause. With dimming lamps he scans the dumbness of air, then cries at the memory of the hunt. The plates of his shoulders stretch his sparse skin, and pepper spots remember lost whiskers.

A white thing

2:43 a.m. and I get up to pee. There's only the night light, knee height. I shuffle arthritic, steady the wall, when a white thing bumps my eye like a drifting balloon. In a hissed whisper, "bitch" it says, imploding its albumen, stifling my breath. I don't have to pee any more.

The motions

I am left-leaning, by dint of bones. In love with the art of the cat and his season of the witch. In the morning shower, in coveralls of numb, I cook up paeans to the nebulous You.

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