There was a first time

There will be a final page, the faded note and empty seats. One day the concert hall will be an office block and after that a hospital. Our hands at the serenade took home the note that fades. — It’s spring again. The blossoms I wrote about last year came too early this year, even before

That’s it

  The orange has been wrung of juice. The garlic’s lost its tang. The salad leaves have dropped their wings. The kitchen now has closed.   — I do like a good food-related poem. Sometimes it’s more or less simply about the food: Most versatile Salad with mackerel Or the words: Recipe Kitchen Alchemy On

Poem 104

Escucha My new muse is light in his visits, is late, never calls, smiles his cheek, tells me nothing. So I invent everything. My new muse wears white-soled trainers and a St. Christopher tucked against the tattoo, never seen in full. When the night begins, the muse’s t-shirt smells of clean laundry. My new muse

Nearing the End

The second-to-last exertion is not the rainbow. It is the to-and-fro flight of a raven clamped in darkness for 150 days. Let there be beats the raven’s wings Let there be beats the raven’s hope No land, raven. No release. Below yap choppy waves, corpses float and catch on broken trees. No release, raven. No