Never informed by the sobriety of angels,
You have been this way since before
Jesus wept.
I dare not call you capricious,
in describing your erratic disguising;
you remain unbruised
or scared by the gravity of apples.
Yet you are not at all
inconstant,
you devilish dog star rising.
Sirius is called "The Dog Star" It is a binary star and the brightest in the heavens.
Cloudburst under cover
of dark
leaves shaken limbs strewn.
Still, wild distant shore
birds
welcome sunrise.
What more from love
poems
with too many words?
What is it about how
you fill up an ice tray
that reminds me of the
difference among snowflakes?
Or why the random pattern
of pomegranate torn open
by mockingbirds on the lawn
looks like the puzzle
of your dishwasher load.
Is it merely the way you
are framed by the moment,
or the picture behind you,
left hanging askew
on a nail firmly anchored,
to the inescapable
impermanence of us?
“I’ll help with the dishes”
Tell your friends you’re a painter;
they’ll want to see your work.
I know you may not have the heart.
You were lovers in your lust and rage.
But you betrayed her by your silence,
while she broke you with untruths.
And you bailed up the reasons,
under heat of the sun; yellow
in fields of ochre colored angst,
you twisted like black crows
storming the canvas.
Tell them you’re a poet;
they’ll change the conversation,
not caring how poems grow
like ivy on your fences, probing
tiny cracks in the walls of conscience.
They are heedless of ebb tides
or swells from the moonrise
on shorelines of memory.
Maybe you’ll be forgiven
when you can write a poem
that smells like cerulean blue.
