Ear-ly Eve-ning

At the end of the day, 
when the crickets find me

most attentive to their feast of roses and drunken

nectar songs,

The darkness that settles in the pit I carry,

this stone heart needs no theorist

to confirm this is where the swallowed

Information has been broken into dark energy

as a compression of all things

in one day

Though they needed my light to see

and absorbed all thermal emissions,

fueled by love and friction

seared in and cauterized, the hole

Space for consolation with these over-

flowing words, no sense of black contains

All meaning

At the end of another day,

crickets had their final say.




Painting by Henry Golden Dearth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Her voluptuous parabolas

All
who have seen her
swear they have never seen her
happier, lately
while she laughs, letting crickets go.

Her curves always know
how to smooth things out
and the way she walks begs forgiveness
as her karma rounds
every corner.

Softness was her style
to say it supply-

it could stem from her blooming chest,
crimson raw cheeks, her velvet bleeding lips
or lilac silvery strands


her glare goes right through any apparitions and by
body, somehow she knows the bright angles
to the long equations...

At night she paints
the smudged sky on her arms.
Before sunrise she weaves weak
words stained black. They don't smear-
she won't use them-in the light by day
she tends to others angles
in her smooth parabolic way.

It seems she just sashays away,
her every day face
acting as the fulcrum for all others
a round nowhere to stick
around.



Painting by Edgar Degas, After the Bath, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.