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Sunday, March 07, 2004

smoke and mirrors

his footsteps seared the paper floor
“love” he said and “love” again
until it sounded true

with sealed lips he kissed her eyelids shut
but they were shells
which crumbled as she fell

“I fear” she said
to ears as deaf as marble ‘til
he saw her eyes

until she saw her eyes
tomblight cold and then as hot as hell
burning through the smoke

nowhere left to lie
for lies were falling one by one
a flimsy card house

toppling in the flames
until his footsteps filled with ash
smothering his leaving

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

It must be Spring again

Here’s the desk that once served as sofa table,
a receptacle for mail, loose change, keys,
things set down first upon arriving home,

now a desk in front of a bedroom window
looking over a bayou, the same bayou
in all the poems I’ve ever written,

the one that has run the same way
for all the years I have lived here
and for many years before.

The same two trees, oak and cypress,
hug a little closer.

And if I move the screen just a little to the left
I can type while watching the big brown squirrel
sitting on a branch of that same oak

and the new green grass reaching
through leaves left over from winter,

the pink buds on dwarf azaleas
shaking their ruffles in the wind,

and what just last week seemed an eternity
now begins to feel like spring.

MA 3/2/04