Weather Channel

Your back turned, a broken compassvibrating faulty,stays shadowed despitethe moonlight-in-the-window. The ghosts living betweenour clothes, the dinner talksof porch lights.The apple-picking offorgotten thought,and allotted time fortouching fingers.I keep my front to your back,my knees closed, jointly pointing. The rain stays south,but not forever. Findwest-bound with your compass.Walk there gently,new figure in the window.I will neverContinue reading “Weather Channel”

In Rockefeller

I can’t see the ground around me justumbrellas overlapping in the raineverywhere as people stand.(I don’t own one—with which to overlap or to be overlapped.The wet always comes in anyway.Not with two?But, surely, the wind…) The rain falls in sheetslike summer lined-laundryand I can only think of ruinedpicnics; Cental Park certainly deserted—sinking ground, soaked benches.TheContinue reading “In Rockefeller”