Soft Spoken
You
can try, try, try again -
explain that quiet quality of the illustrator’s moon,
that great autumnal sadness imbued in purple curtains.
The eyes of actors passing through this stage
inspire softness, harvest all that oceanic warmth.
Oaken floorboards creak soliloquies, proclaiming
pauses -
lost eternities and scintillating codas.
You can try to make them think the
stars
upon the beams and rises - the play is gauche, fine,
but every wretched piece will sing together.
Landings Club (Savannah, Georgia)
With eyes on that liminal plane,
those renaissance curves on the edge
of the verdant plateau, with even the mires immaculate,
you prepare your first declaration.
With no words as yet, all options are stubbornly open -
a burst of noise, stumbling stutters and trails,
question marks jarred from the sweet open goal
of conviction - or an absolute point on the landscape.
With this being said, you see in the
light
how these means are seen through to their ends.
How a person can be so momentous, and so solemn,
and yet frightful, and yet infinitely resolute always.
Old Souls
For
M.G.
Fate sits in the passenger seat of a
Subaru
as it hugs the corner of lower
Springbank.
The city has been teaching me of
tragedy -
I lean into the turn as we make it,
in a backyard of brilliant lights
and such harrowing clarity,
the sharp right marks the entrance
to a city that’s taught me too much lately:
what it’s like to lose an old soul.
