Memento II

The ephemera of my blinked
existence live in shoeboxes,

cigar cases dust-lined and
discolored as if from slow fire

smoking through teenage
correspondence, solemn feelings,

molars and other artifacts
dropped from us

and kept for the reason why
there may be birds which

forget to find their lives beautiful
when nesting, when soaring and

anxious on telephone lines
I dig up the source

but am pulled under
because there was more to

the story that had or hadn’t
happened:

tickets and once-scented kerchiefs
and the newness of love,

a mirror that isn’t,
we ultimately do not stumble

upon ourselves, only someone else
who remembers by keeping

 

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The Bourse

IMG_9162

Urban sketching event at the Bourse in Olde City — pen and watercolor


A mother recovers

To heal, to make whole.
Thus, the blank space
between sounds.

Thus, a rift in tectonic plates.

The hands which beckon or beg
or beat, discovering
a source of light.

A bone knows which way to grow,
underneath all those sinews.

As in a call to prayer,
an invitation to come in
from the world.

As in being bare,
not brave or unbound,
seeking comfort in the small
justices of television plotlines.

The fluids of our lives
come to our rescue.

We press down on the sutures
while children swan dive
into this arena,

and our words become
intentions intercepted

no dividing was ever
done so gracefully