For Jane, it was gulls
High tide hyperbole,
skin art and a barrel of fish
without scales, tossed by the
strength of the hurricane.
Corralled in her current calamity,
between land and the vertical, she
clamors to crawl through the tundra.
For Jane, it was gulls.
In particular, those with that
herringbone pattern, and her
flask filled with rye,
to keep her dreams piping, to
somehow untangle her latest
Red wine rendition
Soon the roots rot away in
the negligence, little resemblance
remains on the branch; the bend
on the stalk more pronounced
with each other’s thunderstorm.
We’ll continue to bury, along
with the stones that still stick
on the side of the thistle, in its
quest to grow over the sycamore.
I sent you six poems; four were
in sequence, terse, but forgiving.
But the ink’s getting rancid, along
with the rant of this red wine rendition.
So, sadly, dear friend, it’s time that
I stop the obsession.
45 milligrams with a disclaimer
Heart attacks, dizzy spells, bloating
and brain fog.
Morning is madness; the sun brings
the sparrows. She opens the shiny
pink pill box.
Angina, dementia, hair loss,
delusions and hypoglycemia.
“Take one upon waking; 45 milligrams
with food or with milk.”
Not much to decipher here, when
pain is persistent, as
Joanne starts her day of sciatica.
No more “I’m sorries”
Sometimes they’ll saunter a bit,
then inconspicuously wing off to
alternate worlds, where the wrens
lose their shadow.
Others dismembered, diminishing
colors combine with the ground.
Between the bare branches, the
tree’s lost her legacy, little remains
on the limb, to let go of.
Having said it redundantly, leaves
on or leaves off.
I can no longer echo “I’m sorry.”