Earmuffs

We sway in subtle synchrony as bare trees pass our window.

I weave the thread of your voice around my ears,

Content to muffle all other sound.

The Dichotomy of Honesty

I’m sure you know now, why you had to ask twice

Before I forsook the scripted words I’d meant to protect you.

You wove hope into the winded sway of my hemline but my bare feet stand resolutely in place.

Even so, I admire you for the painted promises on your palms, your calculated composure.

I’d rather wear down a darker heart, but I’ll pay you due wages of honesty for your fated friendship.

And while we both play the author in a tale of disconnect, I’ll always wish your character the sweetest

Eyes ever guarding the margins between fact and fiction.

To Be Human

You span beyond eyesight.

Your feet have kissed all corners of earth,

Changing every landscape you’ve come to love.

I’ll paint you empty

But your every cell protests when a laugh opens the frequency to my ears.

True, you are brilliant, you are desperate.

This puzzle could be solved with every honest piece

If only we thought to fit together.

Fountain Footprints

It seemed for a moment that everything was left out in the air raid.

Despite the war of the past year, this was the first fear.

Your arms of draperies set my heart back to its silent flutter,

But I’m careful not to sear my world to your skin

As I call to mind how your fountain footprints faded

Too quickly for me to stand. 

Tides of Heart

There is a clock shop on Grand street that contains not clocks, but other ways of keeping time:

Pawned engagement rings, records and cradles,

toasters, love letters, mirrors on every wall.

Time is not linear, not cyclical, not numerical.

It seeps into our pores, we taste it, watch it- or forget to look.

Time, like all unseen things, is more real than the apparent.

More devastating that three dimensional space.

But we breathe and thrive here, and it’s a comfort to inhale-

Gradual change, tides of heart. 

The Pianist

The keys obey and enslave you, though your breaths call the stanzas.

Accordion sleeves slink down your arms, to the pulse of your hands

The world: a marionette poised at your fingertips.

Loan me your pen, dear Pierre, to write the words

For they are of your tongue and song.