by A. Pseudonym




the portent holds you while

you try for solace in the bath

anticipating the opened mouth

the one that cannot close after

and there is a knotting inside

of joints and threads poised

so delicately in the waiting



that chlorine blue in the mall

(a same place packed or shuttered)

remains, like a habit, like an instinct,

the color of what is there behind

the looking and the following quiet,

frantic like the space inside

an empty box sealed shut



cloud of what in your water

sound like wind but not quite

ulterior tones on your voice

the black belly may have

the red hourglass but how

will you find out, and will it

matter, when the widow bites



dead hot summer after noon

on a swing in a yard alone

where no one will forget the sky with me

the ropes yawn when strained

so I twist them to hear something

but the jet will take forever

and it is louder



where is the woman driving where no cars are

where nothing moves in the dark where trees are

where the rose in the sky where cities are is gone

to where light reflected goes when what shines is gone

to where the road turns to rock in the flatland when what

has happened has happened to her?