Triumvirate

triumvirate curling from
the wall with
Monica thrown in
for good measure

the kitchen gods who
oversee the tines
breaking through egg-yolks
after the whites were
finger-strained, separated

searing flames, this
molten centre, carrying forth
burnt offerings on
crackled Limoge, the

flowers are
so delicate

when all are asleep
the crickets sing to her
in the deep dark
punctuated by fireflies

Shaking the Sand from Her Shoes She Sees.....

accidental abstractions, the
towels piled one upon
another,
catalogue colors--
rose pink, marine blue,
loden green,
sunset layers confined
to the linen closet

this final confinement, and
release, to the rain spotting
the pavement, splotching wet,
a study in contrasts

freshwater--rain--so unlike the
seasalt kissed from your
cheek

on this curving stretch of
sand, sand she later
shakes from her shoes,
heels clattering on the
aluminum, smoothing
damp curls back into
tortoise clips

September

sense memories thick and
fast, the jam spilling
from the jar, the
sweet-sick odor of floor
wax in the auditorium,
the clean smell of wood shavings from
freshly sharpened pencils,
the inky essence of
purple-wet worksheets,
the air of sour milk
in the cafeteria

push pins and printed
notices, edicts for our
edification, the sheen
of notebooks new without
a blot, a jot of writing in them

September, new and old,
upon us once again, the
quilts of dried leaves, red,
gold, brown, cover the
grounds, whispering to us
as we walk

Sunday Business Post

video box blares, the
sleek, incomprehensible heads
babble away, blonded, tipped,
lipstick-spackled,
charting the daily cacophony,
battering our ears with
all manner of words

how many column-lengths in
the Sunday Business Post, how
many thick-inked pages to
wrap fish with?

the words rise, aromatic,
and fill her mouth, tickling
her throat as they trickle
stomachwards, woman does not
live by bread

but by the words that
enter through: her eyes, her
mouth, her ears, to feast
upon pages torn and tossed, like lettuce,
into a fine salad