Today I’m about as blue as a mixing bowl,
a denim skirt, a velvet sleeve, my own
personal blue beyond violets, sixties’ eyeshadow,
the sad-eyed sound of Elvis’s voice.
The Warning
Things are not as they should be:
the grass gone coarse
and sharp as wire
the horizon a haze of smoke
threatening to choke
our lungs in past neglect.
—Perichoresis—
by Ryan Keating A dance in medias res Our hands and feet together Cast identical shadows Of union and uniqueness In overlapping circles By common light refracted Onto the floor…
Vespers in Summer
He startles and flies—
but for a moment, a pool of warmth,
a pool of stillnesss, for a moment
Coma, Awakening
When the dream awakens & the sleeping coma
is no longer present, the self finds an awakening –
its love revelation
But Why Should He Warn Us of Everything?
Overnight,
new toadstools
shoulder through
sodden grass
the way sorrows
emerge,
Praise Song for Adverse Noise Conditions
Praise the cicadas, the hydrangeas blown
against the bathroom window; praise
the wind-chimes, the whisper-press
of pages in my hand; the poem,
however it descends.
