More on: Poetry

I don’t know much about Jerusalem
besides my walks in it.

“This is Fraternity
Island and contains
too few palms.
We shall plant
the sands and shade
our cabanas,”

I keep my mouth shut.
If it weighs on me, good—
I’ll be mindful.

At sunrise the end will freeze me like a lake trout
preserved in vinegar,

I am Yours, Yours only, however time
might wear me away

My native leniency inside your rage
becomes itself a hellish surge, otherworldly.

From his balcony, the night sky is a portal to a pinhole
of other lives—some barely visible.

God is a watering hole, I dreamed

Each day, my I changes forms. It’s why I stick to the sonnet:
I like the continuity of it—each day with its plan to queer the Diane.

I stand beside my mother & her tree, picker in hand, ——–—extending the rod, aiming for an apple in apparent ecstasy, fullness aflame, ——–—aquiver in the favonian breeze, brilliant as the seed that gave it birth ——–—when its need in the soil first cast a vision for this grandeur: autumn day brandishing ——–—sapphire sky, air…