Old Fabric
Between the forefinger and thumb
lie the creases of an appeal for Godknowswhat.
A parchment
collaged with wrinkled post-its, paper chits,
yellow square one-D windows
of years gone by.
The chintz sofa of a shared life is worn
Its Persian rug threadbare –
slipping from beneath the feet
The vases that held woodlands of togetherness, now barren.
Pulsating reds reduced to pastel peaches
Turquoise nights to the navy of a nun’s habit.
Velvet down to gingham
Such the fate of old fabric…
Even so, we coexist… without contempt
Not allowing an eroded tapestry to trip us
Though emerald stalks are pale straw
and words are sewn to silence.
In this evening-shaded garret of life
companionship is enough.
Look at the sienna sunset going down gently with the sky
unfurling a star-studded night canvas like board-pins of joys.
The Solid Lines Of Disappearing Things
The air, the tree house
that once knew love is now weak in the knees
and in the time it took those moments to become page weary
to turn from solid lines of tree trunks to smoke
A world fell.
Somewhere in the twilight age
the shaved heads of jasmines ride the desire
to bloom on wet branches of August
but they have lost touch with themselves
We cannot become ourselves again.
You and Varanasi
where human heads sink when alive and float when dead,
where seemingly harsh, bladder-bright yellow crystals gleam,
are disappearing thoughts
A male world is full of dirty jokes.
Hospitals do not care
children continue to laugh off mestizos
and we do not know EVER if we want to laugh or cry
but Swifts come every day
Watching the middle-aged man finely tune his deck of life.
