Poetry

There is a crispnessin the morning airas dog days sliplike a molten sunsetbeneath the wavesof autumn,nights arrivingsooner than last week. We hardly noticein our hastefor school suppliesand awesome

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Nose downsniffing every cornernook and crannyalong the fencewhile otherseye deepin Androidor iPhoneignore the signsyelled in silencea stick offeredlet’s playit saysthen zoomieswhen eyes liftand smileok, let’s play! ml’25 (early

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When first you breakshards of you like shrapnelembedded in the stuccoyou once called ‘home’,tiny men in bibbed overallsbuild walls brick by brickwet mortar flyingto protect you while you

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It sounds so clinical,176 – like a tokenor ticket clutchedwaitingfor your starched shirtsor bakery orderbut to his motherthere was a namesung deep like a lullabybeyond our earsor comprehension,whispered

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There is luxuryin moments spentidly watchingthe sumac swayto an ancientverdant dancelaughing softlyas they gavottein the morning sun. There is luxuryin tattered jeanswell wornperhaps with holesyour Mother cluckedand told

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There is somethingabout a passing queenregal posture wavingjewels sparklingon the wateras she gesturesOnward! to her realmthen dances southwardaccompanied by the murmurof her passing wake ml’25 (cruise ship watching

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