ghost, breathing

I can
stand still

as air before
a thunderstorm

and feel my 
footprints begin
to fill in

(though I have not
yet stepped
out of them);

I never did expect
to leave an impression 
anyway 


the palette of his palate

my synesthetic 
son has lunch waiting – two takes

on the spring beets he 
found yesterday at the first

farmer’s market of the year – 
when we return from

church, each prepared according
to the hues he sees

when seasoning: purple from
orange sections, from honeyed 

pecans, a touch from
the beets themselves; red (deep, like

the wine we open
to play alongside his work)

from beef and asparagus; 
the beets, far milder

than their autumn counterparts,
shine gold through their red

tinge (like a sunset, he says,
and for a second I see)

 
Jamais Vu

I
have walked
that street all
sorts of befores with
eyes open (if not always
mindful of where I happened to be going) – 
and yet on this grey Sunday it seemed new, a place to
be discovered, mapped into memory for the first time. It did not
last long, this sudden untethering from experience – two minutes, perhaps,
before I held the lines again – and still, hours on, there is a part of me that drifts and wonders.



 
Rue des Rêves 

		Running through my memory
		on the Street of Dreams
		- Joe Lynn Turner

The path of love is a Möbius strip; it runs ever 
	ahead, behind, between.

All steps are steps forward; all footfalls vibrate
	along immeasurable length.

Where it passes over water, it gleams mirror-bright; 
stars come down to see their true selves, tiny
ideas of angels by whose light we read and dance.

Where it leads through trees, they do not crowd.
There, it is paved with red bricks from old schools;
all leaves which fall to it become singing birds.

Where it becomes a city street, it is lined (on both
sides, two being one) with museums, with noodle
shops, with shaded places for quiet and chocolate.

Where it soars above dark ragged gorges, we who
	love meet and are not afraid.

Arms linked in hopeful conspiracy, we look over
	the edge, see ourselves waving back. 



In the Manner Which Seems Best to You

Forget inspiration; the only thing
the Muses really give you is a choice.

		You have nine possible ways 
		in which to be devoured alive.
		Please pick one.

There is no tenth option. Take up your
pen, your microphone, your paintbrushes
	and give them a good show;

they do so like to be entertained before their
	teeth meet through your heart.