one at a time.
"minerva"
candle flames dance and the room
smells sweet of melted wax.
on the tips of my toes - the color of raking leaves.
your feet are on my wall,
Thoreau's doing laundry; there are
words: sedulous, loveliness, extraordinary, heartbreaking
and aged metal stars lying flat in the windowsill.
"there are 5,280 feet in a mile, Minerva," I said,
brownie mix with semi-sweet cocoa from my
fingers to my tongue.
"I will defy them," you said, "whatever happened
to my beautiful innocence?"
in those days, I'd climb trees while you rolled logs
and we lounged in the convenience of dreams.
now, paper mache` dries on the table, unfinished.
I feel linen against my sun-freckled skin and
the paleness of your body.
there are ten little tea lights by the glass.
a sad veil drapes around the unwatered plants and
we go hungry in an
infinite number of sensations.
this quiet helps ease chaos.
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