A Small White House

 
May I, when I walk
out the door for good
know the peace of cool
walls and concrete basement
floor, of empty rooms
silent as a corner
spider weaving something
fine and silver, pulsing
in the slightest breeze,
a breath that comes and goes
through these darkened halls,
God knows why.





Quilt
for my daughter Liana

A few minutes of cartoons
as we spoon soup, 
January dusk,
perhaps are quilted like
 
patchwork into something 
I will reach for in
my last winter, 
when I am never warm.
 
In that bare flat,
reruns on TV,
hands that cradled you
will finger every seam.

First appeared in Inertia Magazine




At the Hopper Exhibit
for Bob Blair

The mythical horse on the Mobil sign
soars along the treetops,
sailing to the place everyone gazes towards,
where the woman in the hotel room
isn't alone, forsaken,
the movie usher isn't bored
staring at her shoes,
where the lady in her summer dress
somehow finds a greater bliss
than standing in the light
in her summer dress,
where the moment is enough,
chop suey slowly savored,
far beyond the frame, 
where horses have wings.