morning lines #136
Wisdom is knowing how near the end is.
How soon the blackbird comes crashing
against the window pane.
morning lines #135
“Here is a souvenir of me.”
It’s not my ear.
It’s not the rusty condom ring of my anus.
It’s not my whisper-soft eraser-colored nipples.
I don’t know what it is.
But keep it as you would your precious tongue
against the straight white of your teeth.
Because it’s worthless.
morning lines #134
They gave her red grapes every day in the late afternoon.
She spat out like a bored sniper the dark leathery skins, random shots
that made contact with her lap, the floor, my amused and grateful heart.
I see her now in a melon-shaped hat, cherries the color of dried blood swinging
from her ears. She wears a vest made of mandarins and roses, and sits as judge
(with a wink and a shrug), holding, like an egg, the germ of her droll whole mind,
while the plum in my chest heaves and bleeds at the loss and gloss of her.