My Mouth an Apostrophe

Passing through the colonnades
Of her lips, I can read
Poetry on her breath,
My mouth an apostrophe
Her poetry is mine.

 

The Day Hangs On

The day hangs on too
long. The silver line of the sun
stretches across the black

mountain of rooftops,
spilling into a broken span
of green lawns and alleyways.

The dying squirrel in the road
dreams of the anarchy of night,
his relationship to truth shifting

with each passerby. Three lone
crickets, confused and tense, no
one to witness their scalloped legs

breaking, churn among the rot
of old men snoring-so goes
the sadness of summer.

The blue-gray cocoon,
hung with a torrent of black
crows, cascades over freshly

painted balconies, where
mothers and fathers leave
their bedrooms to cast

long shadows over their own
children, sullen and strange.

 

Lunch

Ah, just think! In 1958
A yellow hatted Buddha
Lunched with Frank O’Hara
On the MOMA mezzanine

Cold lentil soup
Basil tomato and mozzarella
On huckleberry sour dough
Iced green tea with milk