Love Letter in Violet
I meet you in the middle of rooms,
scent-stained with unused shoe bronze,
withering in sunshower heat,
to find how sinking bodies
fit together against skies
of social license, parental voices,
to find what we were meant for
except the falling of masks,
the repetition of Bergman scenes.
I meet you without petals for armor
without rapiers for quick-cut wisdom,
just holy fruits to anchor
our low-lit expectations
to become what was meant to be.
Blood Strength
I watched your life drain
into vials, a red neon shade
coursing through plastic tubing loops;
lab coats and hair nets with Peanuts characters
blocking the view
from where I sat, distant on
uncomfortable plastic, reaching occasional
to give what breath and comfort
hands can manage when they shake
under their own torments.
Under cloud skies from beyond,
the coats try to add everything
as numbers on punch cards,
part of an equation hidden
behind veiled eyeglasses.
It never takes on the full flesh of Spring,
cheek cold dampness of deep winters
with you, in olden times we’d
suffer with our meanings,
now just wait for phone calls,
to read entrails again.
Old Chairs
When I’m standing in doorways,
nose against fogged glass of time,
I see you:
You still have Batmobile clock.
the one from Forever,
not the Nolan films.
There is still a soot cover,
of cigarette ash,
gray market marijuana trimmings
on the table you’d toss
coins, affects from pockets
of jeans you don’t wear anymore.
You move with purpose,
full of reason for being,
rather than the peace made
with death’s relatives now.
