Salon and vegetables

It had been too long, and the dhal needed stirring. So yesterday I invited another vigorous stir — Saturday night salon, with readings and a round of “exquisite corpse” poems after the feast. What happens in the simmer except cinnamon-clove exhalations, flashes of coriander starlight in couplet after couplet. Here are excerpts of the beast ~~

*

Cherries, a bus, a bus driver,
spring, long ago, then lots of plums
on thumbs, sore from sucking.
Summer salt on lips and shoulders
and skimming your ankles
in memory, the heart’s sandy shore.

We count the grains, the stars,
the unceasing waves crashing over us
with their unnecessarily loud and repeated attack
that resolve in silence, without gravity,
free-falling silently
in a void beyond the universe, swirling.

Dance. Your arms want more
than walk, walk, walk.

*

I stumbled into a word cloud
but found I couldn’t speak aloud.
I could not see with my eyes;
I could only hear with my heart.
Deep calling,
echoing across the sea of love,
a sail flickers.
Put the ocean in a jar
where it will ferment and
push tiny volcanoes through the floaties,
because I don’t want to drown
especially now, especially in moonlight,
especially as the knowledge
is revealed.

*

Just like you in the petals,
you in the wings,
you on a thread suspended
near me in a web of entanglement
and struggling like the moth
not yet resigned to its inevitable fate.

Dry-brushed whole
on the faded blue of the afternoon sky,
the night starts forming.
Your face reflects the wall lantern,
a fairy of light
laughing at the crossed bars
where cherry tomatoes droop through,
waiting to be stolen.

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