On Melancholy’s Dime

Questions aren’t always seeking answers.
 
At times they merely need 
a place to land, 
or a place to hide.

They remind me of you...

aflutter and alone...

in muted shades of gray.

You haven’t cast a shadow
since November,
and you’d count the notes 
in laughter’s melody,
had your eyes not
slit their wrists
on a cold edge of the sun...
 
as alacrity left
memos on your soul.
 
So I watch in sad amusement
as your hair reflects the neon
through the smoke,
 
while you whisper 
to the whiskey,
 
then kiss my cheek

and slowly

find the night.

A Walk on Paper Stilts

 
I watch you fold the remnants of your soul -
lay them neatly on the shelf
between Gideon and a blood-stained August rose -
then face me, without turning,
while your smile looks for a quiet place to die.
 
All those hooded remonstrations
are but window-dressing to a vagrant heart,
and I wonder if you taste the tenets
falling from your tongue,
 
or simply place them in a scrapbook
with your violet misgivings
as your skirt becomes
a blanket, to the floor.
 
You filter your reality through undefiled linen
as you genuflect to passion,
which is dressed as Sunday’s hero -
 
who might offer you salvation,
 
or maybe just a dance
 
but you’ll never hear him say the word,
 
Amen.