Poems and Lovelorn Thoughts, Vol. XVIII

Spectre  

I am like

The plume of smoke

That rises from the back of

Phoenix throats

In mid October;

Burns, dissolves, rises in

Languid curls like incense

In offering,

I am reborn and recolored

In every exhale.

 

Do not forget

That you have a heart

As intricate as ice-lace

On windows frozen over,

As pure and sweet as the first thaw,

As colorful as everything on

Every street in every part

Of the world inside

Your head,

As soft as a prayer,

As good as a

Promise.

 

A Truth Worth Noting

Even the Snake Charmer

Is not immune

To the venom of the cobras

He traps in his basket.