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.
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.