sylvia expresses disdain for our roadtrip 

softie

the bent pronged branches left hanging, a trace of me in the woods. he made a cage of chickenware and i filled it out with an image of my mother, bright rounds of red and fat cones. my floppy failed scones a lesson never to make something only to use something up. a end sacrificed by a mean me, heavy as stones. she comes tomorrow. fewer pleasant afternoons. she stinks of error long in past, rotten cloud rising from a dungheap. she will not ruin aims at invisible targets. it warms me that i can laugh, that we can laugh. keeps us up high out of reach. such a day with him, so much love in my life softens me. no surprises, i conjured him began when i was eight and knew it though he was off in the world already.

drafts

panel of poets

Slick words stolen from thesauri,
Whispy loud whispers of
Love love love.

Eyes bored through like nails
One speaks the other glows with envy
One falters an ego blooms like
Red warm blood

Their words artifacts
Canadian soul food
Sting the air like
Rancid curdled cream

At ease in their tall red chairs,
Water, books, microphones,
Versed speeches meditate on
Old dead things

Afraid to look forward
The path clear before us
A bridge of fire
A curtain between us
Sewn from scraps of

Paper, will fall
to ashes.
And our only armor
These dead words