Saturday Afternoon

 

The apartment’s littered

with empty boxes and the chaos

of a collector ‘s move: memory

and beauty’s accumulations wait for order

in a foreign land.  During summer days

of atmospheric immersion and love’s deluge,

time’s become unnavigable. The unknown

reigns sovereign, and life rebels in willing turbulence.

Once more I indiscriminately choose

a word’s yearning.

 

Sun floods

the windows’ sills;

a solitary glass vase sits on the floor,

half filled with crystal beads,

opalescent, shimmering worlds

that unwittingly catch the light.  A universe

discloses itself in these luminous spheres: crumpled,

empty newsprint, torn cardboard boxes, ignored remnants

now live; circles of angelic light animate debris

in overflowing orchestration.  Tori Amos accompanies

the illuminate resurrection; I fail to meet her high notes,

so I hum to the bass, as my fingers

move across a pianoless keyboard.

 

From the river’s waters,

a breeze blows in; its forgiving hand

caresses my face, brings wind and water

to my longing flesh, a bare cheek waiting

for love’s perfect thunderstorm.  Spirit

and baptism soak this Saturday afternoon;

I unceremoniously eat a warm baked potato

mashed with mustard and mayonnaise, bite by bite,

until the sun arcs beyond revelation.

 

 

 

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