poète

"Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina."

l. 427, "The Waste Land", T.S. Eliot. 


Miss Midnight
The night and I are old friends.
I am a sleeping sunshine

She, a daytime moon.

My music words have grown quiet

So Miss Midnight comes for me.

She scatters my mind about the room

Fairy light, bittersweet dust.

She hushes the clocks and clicks the locks

Around my resting place.
There, I sleep
Not for tiredness, not for boredom
Not for escape, not for necessity.
I sleep for pure, clean, engulfing contentment.
The nocturnal maiden
She hums me, hides me, over and tides me
'Til the morning returns to find me. 

The Blessed Season
O Summer, why do you hold back?
Come forth! Brilliant one!
Approach us boldly with your hot authority.
Come now and burn our skin
Seep through this barren city
Make us gasp for water 
Make us wish we'd never shunned the cold.
May your rage and rays
Send us, heads hung low, marching in procession
For blessed refuge in the ocean's embrace.


A Sweeter Love
There is night: colder, meaner, further than the moon
but there is day: fuller, wider, brighter than noon.
There is sadness: lower, weaker, longer than sorrow
but there is hope: stronger, deeper, better than tomorrow.
There is question: richer, righter, higher than how
but there is time: newer, lighter, warmer than now.
There is death: madder, uglier, darker than the abyss.

but there is love: bolder, sweeter, holier than a kiss.

Vulture Me
meandering in and out of consciousness

smokehaze or thought
hang above the circle

milky warmth and old t-shirts

empty haikus and frosted glass

amplifying the spaces that my love cannot reach

there is much to be said (and nothing)

for seed and Stone: for mustard and Morning

buried deep in the red, cracked earth of a heart

red wine spilt, water on granite

ordinary citizens barge through

plain words assault the intricate ones

they circle my mind so vulture me, Jesus.