1.
No trembling aureoles of light
mating in night’s pocket, no Zen cricket.
Sunset is a lace curtain at the kitchen
window, lime chiffon tile. Plates of bone
from the evening meal are still life: pink
shards of salmon, California blush.
Sleep is a juniper limb, the stretch
of flesh in a tangle of chintz.
2.
Because it is Sunday, you place
the raspberry croissant on a white
china plate. Liquid shimmers in an oval
spoon. A young child burrows; small
hands discover me, pull my breasts
to her cheek. Through half-closed lids I watch
your mouth explore the Chinese plum,
the rich, deep stain of Autumn.
Autumn again it is. October once more. And before it deepened into the moist browns of November, I remembered I wanted to tell you how much I like this. The senses can be hard to capture so that they tear into reading. You encircle them with your pride of lions, the lioness leading, and feverishly attack until the flesh of it is bared open for our enjoyment. Thanks for the ravaging.
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Autumn again it is. October once more. And before it deepened into the moist browns of November, I remembered I wanted to tell you how much I like this. The senses can be hard to capture so that they tear into reading. You encircle them with your pride of lions, the lioness leading, and feverishly attack until the flesh of it is bared open for our enjoyment. Thanks for the ravaging.
Andy Ceroni
And NIght's Pocket! YUM.