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| violet in the rain and grass |
How quickly
time passes. Midnight, in
a damp season
(guaranteed
to help, no matter
your trouble)
pages ago
we sailed between
desert isles
(business,
sexual impotence
we fix all)
now violets
flock and scatter amid
greening grass
(envy or
headache or bad luck
or witchcraft)
pages ago,
we sought shade from heat,
too-bright sun
(there are those
who pay to do you
ill, you know)
now I curl
with dog and blanket
by the fire
(her skin so
thin she feels your eyes):
drive-by warmth
(if you are
a victim of bad
luck or doubt)
scrounge bravely
before a Nova
Scotia spring
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| page from a journal (with ad for a tarot reading) February to May 2015 |
This poem is another "flock of lunes," of course, or rather, my "mistaken" lunes, consisting of stanzas formed from lines of 3 syllables, 5 syllables and 3 again. It is literally my last entry in a particular notebook, interleaved with lines and translations from earlier pages.
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