New Writing (2 Poems)

Two Frames

Two blank slates were we:

I, some simulation of another,
suit, tie and teenage aftershave.
A series of steps, followed somethings,
to keep from complaint, to have a later portrait,
to fit the crowd’s intentions, to sway to slow music,
to do all except love.

If I was painted, crooked canvas, expired palette,
there could be no blame:

You, some image, screened and printed,
all pixie dust, ukulele strums,
the type to splash water fountains, and
dance gracelessly, unloved musical, with.
All to be ignored, cold hands, ambitions, the fact
you never were.

Years hence, I could hold you
a thousandfold, frigid digits and all;

A mere negative, still.

Both Times

The clouds traced patterns, faint, smoke-like,
empty as I, facades to hide the heat,
shapes of crustaceans and war victories.

It holds as unlabelled paint, as dollar-store varnish,
brightly, the peace is timely, as she seems
to forget it all again.

I cannot blame (bright razor, handcuff twine),
never the tide-time, never the moonlight,
now the improper thing.

When the others took their mantle, bedding
widows’ wives in their cocksure way,
I was shrugging, waiting for planes.