2 New Poems

Colour Corrections 

The facade of remembrance,

a descent of wool-eyed shroud,

blocking out pieces, stations one

could say, to the current of

river stone smoothness, perfections

of straight razor and stained glass.

We are always red, flush with youthful

bloom, in hindsight haze, while in

the moment we wasted hourglass grain

as idle shore with pacing about,

with shoe tracks beating out

hesitant pitter-taps, most unlike

the wild symphonies we recall.

Waking Up Too Late

You pour something special,

concord-Kosher sickly sweet:
the softer kind of IV injection,

the easier thing than talking

stark under-dressed and over-worried.

You balance the task-tools as

spinning plate syndrome, watch

burning shadows on plaster walls

in their bleach-scrubbed indifference,

wondering about how lipstick stains might look.

You recover to the half-tick and

rustle of overtaxed wind-chimes, of

underused bedsheets, curtain

colliding with cast of pale light

crusted eyelash on quarter-past

Sunday noon.