May 2009


My hands are in the garden,
waking flowers and yards
of old rotted leaves
left over
for bugs
to hide.

Some are eyelash soft
darting away in a hurry
others simply blink their eyes
and look at me-

coffee?
no coffee?
what’s the rush.

But regardless,
I’m waking
and tipping the coffins
of deceased plants
everywhere,
pulling their little bodies out
and dropping in my morgue bag

their last resting place
my trash.

What ever secret they knew
is gone now,
what ever whimper of sadness
their leaves might know
how water made them laugh
and wind whipped their children
loose to fly-

yes, it’s vague and strange
altogether
mixing this soil with
the sudden red blood
from my hand.

3 May 09

Advertisements

After dad died,
I opened it-
that rusty red lid
with the tools screaming for attention,

The ones dad yelled about
breaking,
chipping,
leaving out.

Yes, the same.

they know his hand
the way he held hammer’s head
and struck,
every curse for the blow
to tender thumb.

they heard them all.
The pliers tightened it jaws
and the level bubbled with joy.

Except it was me.

I kept them, yes,
in the garage,
next to the others.

They got to know them.
those smells and dry air.

And occasionally
I used them,

till my hands felt
the pressure,
same pain.

but they were never
relaxed,
never mine.

3 May 09

月の霧 彼女の露出した体のまわりのカーテンを通したスリップ。