Prose Poem for Michael Meteyer
Drank tea filled with inverted commas, the way Prokofiev liked it, at sundown, the elaborate snow filling the windows. I felt tenderness, wanted to bless the vines. Light vanished so quickly.
If I was a classicist I’d write a panegyric about magical thinking but I’m not. Perhaps its enough to say I’m Orphic in my wrists—in ligaments the storms of childhood and old maps.
More than once I’ve crossed open water holding on to torn sails.
Planet of the Blind 