Yellow scrawl on the east
window, badge of human desire:
to leave a sign, to color the
course of life, to place a
lip upon a lip and
open up the other.
We chase the high note because it’s
dangerous. Nights on Curtner, a
schoolyard glimmer that flips a
prehistoric switch: horror movie,
We might not otherwise
know that we’re alive.
Our bibles the calendar and the
checkbook, and why not?
There is nobility in groceries,
yardwork, snacks for the
soccer team, whether to end this
stanza on a period or an em dash –
Circle the lake with your eye on
Pollux you will end up wet.
Life is the single item: a blonde
picking butts off the patio,
bouquet of alstromeria,
a purple ring that
reminds Monique of her uncle.
Parmesan over popcorn.
Cirrus cloud in the shape of Ireland.
An F-sharp sung by Nat King Cole in 1947.
Reflection of a girl’s face next to
a bottle of vanilla syrup.
The one snaggle tooth that makes her cute.
The jogger runs in a blur of
light and smell.
The hiker spots the red cap of a
woodpecker, beating an adagio waltz;
recalls a song, a cafeteria, a
cast on one arm, a girl withcinnamon hair that smells like peach.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV