The sirens lulled me in/ I moved closer to the sea/ A quiet dreamy state/ Slowly enveloping me.

It has the exact weight and texture/ of something still alive –/ all its own colours each pale hair

Eyes black, deadly ashen face with the pearl’s tears/ creating the new path to the sky.// So it soars up

A mother’s love will always draw her back/ On that cramp and narrow road/ Where corn dries

The house was all noise and confusion,/ too bright and full of people -/ then a knock at the door, full

At which hour the harsh winds blow and churn out the desire/ At which hour the dews of prospect

you remind me of the rhythms in myself-/ no house to play to/ or the sound in someone else-

At river's edge in late October/ As autumn leaves began their fall/ My eyes beheld an angel there

The arrow of time/ flies forward./ It flies through/ snack bars/ and waiting rooms/ where we come

Mr. Montefusco, the combination/ of your Italian lineage,/ your cool nickname: The Count,/ your

The Fujiwhara Effect/ sounds elegant off the tongue/ belying the danger/ double hurricanes collide

We stand, move on cue./ We stand in queue./ Our position is/ Is no more subtle than/ The proposition

Sturdy jackets, collars up./ Raspail in the afternoon./ White plums in the sky/ ruffled as if painted on./ Empty

They say we all have dreams/ of flying. Well, I don’t, not the/ ones where your running shoes/ are

anglers dot or clump the pier’s boulders/ casting, reeling, fighting:/ to bait stolen, a catch of seaweed

I posed a question for my love./ I paused for an answer, holding/ still, but in time no answer came./ Wind

Alone,/ a loon sang/ of poetry,/ her voice caked/ across a lake/ dimpled by rings/ of leaping fish.  

Take a swim in the darkening lagoons/ under my eyes, live vicariously through a piece/ of cake served

of my memories remain ashen tears of contrition/ when I walk on the embers of a purgatorial past/ it

Ten years from now when we look back at these days/ It may seem funny how we were so scared of a