Wednesday Poem

"I will celebrate / you, in your own skin / ashy, powder-dusted / textured, fragile skin"

" ... whose voices were singing / in the back of your mind, far & away /on a sweltering late summer night in / Tupelo?"

"Wait! Where was I? / (Distracted) / Right. / About to give you what I owe you."

"I’m afraid of what you will say, what days succeeding / without number will reveal"

"On the second day, I got laid off from work and dreamt of pounding my fist on the pump of a Purrell bottle."

"She swishes sand, leaving wing-shaped tracks, / & on her back, carries a detailed / topographic map ..."

Fear anew the heat of the sun; it burns / the air like high noon in a prison yard.

"Maybe we’re cut too deep / for mending. Maybe we should try imploding like the Stardust"

"Beside you great rolls of yet more foliage / Their vibrancy is a reminder of your inadequacy."

Little librarian lady, last time I saw you / You stamped my book at circulation: / The Stoic Philosophy of Seneca.