Boot-prints
One fifth my weight,
I hop along the gray landscape
As if in slow motion:
One leap, two leaps, three -
A squash, a press, a smush
Of my boots in the dust.
They leave behind an imprint
That will soon dissipate.
Here it is all quiet,
Save for the deep huffs of my breath echoing off the glass just inches from my face.
I observe the waxing blue planet
That I call home,
And reflect on how similar I am to these boot-prints in the dust.
It is dark here.
I close my eyes.
I breathe.
In. (Hcch)
Out. (Hfff)
I open my eyes to find myself tucked in bed,
Staring at the ceiling,
Knowing that I need only close my eyes again
To return back to where I’ve never been.
The Mantis Shrimp
The ancient creature dances in her rainbowed shell
Extraordinary sense of smell
Vision unparalleled - 12 photoreceptors, 4 times as many as my own
How can one ever imagine a world so vibrant, so rich, so full
I’d like to think that she can see
The ultraviolet touch of light
Through the ebbing waves as
She snuggles up to her partner
Outside of the reef
Far from predators
Yet by touching the ocean floor
She’s so much closer than I to Earth’s core
Feeling the pull of gravity
The force that holds us in existence
I’d like to think that she can see
Gravity.
Damn how I’d like to see gravity..
As it is I’ll never know what she sees:
I’m not a mantis shrimp
But shit I so wish I could be
Yesterday’s Blues
Of Eleanor Rigby and Benjamin Button
Seeking love and finding
-
Neither wide awake, but mouths agape in
Horror
Door hinges broken on the way
Out
About to be saved but whisked
Away
By the winds of yesterday
The only touch known: their own
My own
hand scraping hand half-heartedly
Clapping as cloudy curtains draw
Upon the waned crescent
Not another blessed
Soul in the room, in this
Lonely space we knew
Only me and the moon and yesterday’s blues
Blankets
My dreams
What good are they if they
are forgotten
by morning
Snuffed out by blankets of the sofest kind.
What good am I if I
forget myself
through mourning;
The weight of this new reality pulls down
the corners of my mouth, tugs on
my eyelids.
My dreams
What good are they if they
are forgotten
through mourning
Snuffed out by blankets of the sofest kind.
Mother Autumn
She wakes,
Tends to her children, pinching their cheeks and tickling their lungs
Hungry, she sets the bushes ablaze - the ashes drift towards the green carpet beneath
She is reminded of her own fleeting existence
Soft tears fall
But they pass, replaced by gentle sighs
Her face clears
She takes a moment to listen to the muffled thuds of footballs passing between feet, the clicking of zippers against brisk-moving bags, the ruffling of feathers tucked away in roofs
She breathes - taking in the warm waft of spices from the café and the dizzying scent of wet fresh paint from the window trimmings of the corner bookstore
Deep twilight begins to set in: time to bathe
The slick cobblestone in the golden light of the street lamps
And kiss us on the nose goodnight
Graying
She flicked her rope against the carpet to the drumming rain; her body lay flattened upon the ground. As squeaks escaped from tufts of fur, her ears remained tucked back behind her head. The eight squeakers, all equipped with ten talons primed for pumping, began their bi-hourly ritual.
And not a beat was missed.