Thursday, August 13, 2015


Name the sad, bereft of bitter.
Set the table, bounty with honey.
Line that high road with peony floral.
Plant these seeds in anticipation

Throw open the window.
Perfume away the rot, the rancid, the inner recoil.
The laying on of silk.
A short course with fine sandpaper.
When you finally sleep,
It will be in pure down laid by swans.

Mask the hard, the sweaty effort.
Behind this screen of sheer aptitude.
The facile, the triple axel, the words
That tumble out as if written by air.
The fumbles and missteps made dying, then dead.
By a calendar's wear of repetition and tire.

Push away the chair that's held you.
Rise up to meet the gilt,
The precious medal that swings from velvet
The pride, the expanse of landscape.
The thing you're owed, your one entitlement.
The prima ballerina in all of us.

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