Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.
Grateful acknowledgement is made to Oana Cambrea for the use of her digital art, Autumn (2007).
If I drink at your sky it is because
I fold into a paper doll. Thirst is second
nature to me. Items, like xeroxed copies
of Apollinaire's secret poems and an eyeliner
I've fished from the lake, replace
the ivory keys missing on the piano.
Grass in my hair identifies with the cat pawing
its face before the moon. I cut out
irises from your clouds and pin them
to sleep beside the ibis tablecloth.
A contrail's itinerary lances my mouth like licorice.
I skin the elms, a drought of sorts, to read
the ice crystals on your stars. Wind, strumming
the clothesline, lifts the hem of my idle skirt.