extra ribbed

Cinderman is a winged
thorn-man
his extra rib
snug in his tight right fist
like some gauche cello in some poem
(or else the very poem)

mirth fiesta

last time I saw it
my old folks’ cottage
was crowned in a mandorla
of myrrh leaves blue grass blades
and ivies

once upon a word

my dream screen snapped
like an overheated crystal
mapping out a seepage layout
of your green quick silver body

keepin' mum

we'll carol broken-lock cities
two angel-lauters who sing
their loves'n play their ditties
recouped in castanets ring

much that we twirl

much that we twirl/ much that we stretch our masks
to cover our shadow weary with dancing
the time will come
when we see the man next door
and know him to be us
rocking fate’s progeriatric

Tiptoein’

steering clear among
dormant words in the grass
so they sleep on