Poem 3.

At World’s End at Vik Beack, Iceland

I left my memory in a damp cave 

protected by a moat of black sand.

An oil lamp lay abandoned on a moss shrouded log

and a flock of Hrafen danced above in a sacred rhythm.

Waves folded in soft pleats against the shoreline

and the smell of damp seaweed 

aroused me to grab a cup of Kjötsúpa soup

and coffee at the cafe up the mountain. 

I turned towards another visitor to make conversation but 

he turned away from my eyes and I remained alone. 

I visited that cave once more, twice more, and lastly in prayer. 

Each time, I wore a red knitted sweater from home. 

To dream of the creatures that have graced this very place!

What stories did they bring? What songs remain? 

Poem 2.

Borrowed flannel pants

a piano untuned.

raining saffron beetles 

on a gentrified roof.

Brown eyes that 

shined like glass.

Eros used to be your neighbor.

He stole all of your jars

and refilled them with 

rusted cello strings.

Tossed coins down a wishing well.

In prayer that the gold gems 

embedded in the canvas of my skin 

would be enough for you?

Or me.  

Poem 1.

We took a ride on the
Wheel of Fortune, neither
of us asked to be pinned.
Your back against me
I measured the distance with
anxious fingers and tight eyes.

In a dream, you told me that
you wished on a star
to live in that pink house
near the lake.
A parrot resided in the cypress tree
You said.
A colorful thing that
sang in warbled Spanish.
I woke with a mosquito on my nostril.
A sickening smell of crushed magnolias
clinged to the air.
The guilty rarely sleep well.
I fissured my heart before
you had the chance
three swords shared between us.

A cigarette
my first in six years
under a bridge in Central Park.
Hysteria at sullied white shoes
and disobedient umbrellas.
I'm too soft for straining steel
and late night trains
you are too.
Water is our only salvation.