Still Life

We consider the voices
that haunt our path,
the brassy tenor of the stage
or the long vowels of others,
the belly laughs, the titters,
the midnight sighs.

Every inch is underwater
but for where these feet
are placed, guided past the
devastation of Winter to where
only the bravest blooms dare
stretch toward a pale sun.

Logs are placed here and there
in a feeble attempt to protect
downed limbs and logs
at a time when the sumac
has yet to arrive to color
the ankles in streaks of red.

The dirty blonde in torn jeans,
the plastic brunette and
the raven-haired vampire
kick the decayed oak
into submission; it would be
a bad joke had only
they walked into a bar instead.

It was somewhere near here
where a corkscrew clinked
and a couple paper cups held
a cool Chardonnay,

and it was in this spot someone
discarded a crushed can
of bad beer, so early in the season
for such neglect of the body,
of the woods, of the soul.

Those few faces that appear
through the trees are tight-lipped,
the loud voices quick to quiet
under the weight of this
expanse of limbo,

the water in the lagoon
cresting against the planks,
lapping like the hollow pangs
of an empty stomach.

An Endless, Awkward Dance

The sticky keys
of this old piano
stutter and lisp
from B major
down to G,

flitter around in
some minor mood,
a flash, a moment of
light at the end
of some dark hallway,

and then the damper
knocks against
the casing like
a body hitting the
hardwood floor

head first, and
for another night
the scales put a finger
to their lips
and whisper, "No."