late winter dream

at the ocean's edge, on the sand, in a bluish daylight,
i held a camera in one hand and a red string in the other

at the end of the string was a small white paper bird. i tried
in vain to organize a photograph such that my paper bird would
appear to fly in the sky above the sea. this took more hand coordination
than i was prepared to give.

i fumbled with the camera, my hands moist from the ocean air,
wind blowing about, hair in my face.

all of the sudden i found myself many yards back and high in the air,
atop a sort of cliff. from underneath me came a rage of black horses
charging out into the ocean, spreading east and west as they went,
accompanied by soldiers. each figure was solid and dark against the blue-white
swirls of wave, sand, clouds, sky.

in a flash i wondered where they would go--the sea would surely
swallow them. and just as i wondered, i witnessed a magnificent thing--
each horse, each soldier, transformed into a black bird, and took to the sky.

i managed to capture one single photograph of this moment.

Terminal 2

What royalty is this?
Asleep atop his throne all
wood and edges and corners.
Golden curls worthy of a fairy tale,
tumbling down an alabaster face,
askew in slumber atop
a soft chest, spilling over
a rounded belly, held up
by a most rigid and stable seat.

oh, The slumber of the satisfied,
the satiated, content
And the restful peace of the fulfilled,
impervious to the busy din
of bustling footsteps all around,
eager to please in their swiftness.

Of a sudden, a shadow crosses before
his highness-- the square shape of a man
hovers over...
One eye opens, then another, then a spritely jump
from cascading throne.
Jerking muscles, and one question--two words,
looking upwards now at the shadow's visage, with a wide open grin:
Shoe shine?

morning

a man strode through the highest branches

of winter’s charcoal trees, slapped haphazardly

against an orange sky, and i

kicked clouds down the hallway.

they were in my way

and they were primed for flight.

with the gusto of a symphony conductor, i

yank the blinds open and flood my throat

toes

eyes with light.

i’ve got to be me- ti- cu- lous at the windowsill—

each dust-flake of sun i consume will save

my

life.

i birthed an epiphany last night and it glowed

white under the blankets.

in the morning, it had gone

and there i was soaking in a puddle,

with a backache, and the sweetest hangover, alone.