2, 3, 5, 7,
11, 13, 17,
19, 23, 29, 31, 37.
In the 13th prime of my
life I think back to when I
was last in my prime, at 37.
I divide my age by myself
to remind me there is only 1
of me, now at 41.
41, 43, 47,
53, 59, 61, 67,
71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97.
spent money found glittering in the rain
dropped in a wet pile
now dried and preserved
flattened
a value of a different sort
touching at the edges
Jacaranda seed pods on a cork board at the window.
*
Under the jacaranda tree,
My scooter perches with others
Tilted in shaded comfort.
*
Under this jacaranda tree
Dry seed pods scatter among flowers.
And the forgotten trash of the rush
Grows together until clearing day.
*
My wire basket is heavy with flames.
*
The utility of a dry and seedless fertility.
*
Take flight with me before the downpour.
I open both blinds:
Pull them up on morning light,
Like water, lifted from a shallow well.
I welcome night’s end:
But still, still, I dare not keep
My promises to an unwell future.
Waiting for the green man
To walk the walk,
I stand striped from below
In the dry shadow of my umbrella.
Neighbors drip around me;
Crossing the lines
To flash teeth in selfies.
And, when he walks
In place, in a place
Perpendicular to us –
We rush to him,
Full of thanks and wet habits:
But lonely as arrows
Without targets.
Your brush strokes –
Elegant, poised, impress readers
With fluid wrist dances.
My penned lines:
Ugly with meaning.
Smudged, they leak at their stops.
Your voice is something that makes
more than a noise.
Your vocal vibration
delights and annoys.
In silence, your mouth still steals
a mountain’s poise.
