Now I Watch The City

The people stare at us,
two dressed up;
paramours.
I, in a suit
a tie
and you
in a dress, aware
and high with your black
hair now pulled back tight
and you write it down:
"No one knows the way it goes,
except the ones who planned it wrong"
on a hotel napkin that's pushed
towards me from across the table.

Her Missing Brother

She bent low closer to leaves and bark
to tear off paper away from asleep birch trees
and told me her plans to chart out far into these woods
and find what was forgetten about her age three brother.
She said she thought she saw him in the sea
she remembered seeing him in a picture hanging on the kitchen cupboard.
She feigned memory to pick up a single strawberry
and listened close as the dark fades
a far away instrument we hear scraping its notes,
much like her father scrapes food to the floor for the dog on a plate;
he seems to not care, but she saw him write this once inside his bureau:
"a ghost eye saw something i found in the corner:
a ghost i saw waiting around the corner."

Chimera

I swear I saw, not twenty feet ahead,
there, in the moon's good light,
a man fall to the ground
quaking and strained without sound,
his whole being leaving with the last exit of air.
But when I got to the place where I swear he lay
I found just leaves and dirt which broke away
and in I fell down
and down when I pushed my boot through.