A Country of Snow

A cardinal flaps its wings in a country of snow.
Its blood will not freeze.
Its red feathers are a revelation when all is white.

Nightmares exist only in the dark.
I must face the truth when the sun is high,
when the world is luminous and open.

I rummage around in a closet that is not my own.
I take a notebook and write these poems.
I must give them back. I must let them go.

The Black Madonna

The Black Madonna



The candles burn all night, the fumes from the flames

darken her face, her eyes and skin.

The living see her in flashes of light but it is rare.

The dead are often surprised by her power,

her gravitational pull.

More will come, more will rise from their beds,

riding on ocean waves,

riding on clouds blown from the other side

of the known world.

Many are startled by her love.

She was once just a rumor, a fairy tale

told to children in nursery school.

The candles burn all night, the fumes from the flames

darken her face, her eyes and skin.

More will come, more will rise from their beds.

The Porn Star

Words limit her. She vibrates, she pants.

Like an acrobat on a trampoline, she bounces.

She appears naked but she is not.

She wears her skin like a prophylactic spacesuit

as coachman pull her through a snowy world

of wonder and lust.

She is the ultimate reality TV star.

She suffers from a kind of lunacy

and shows off her plum size bruises

on her wrists like jewelry. 

She dreams of Cinderella, and a fairy kingdom,

and a glass slipper that will some day fit.

How many frogs must she kiss?

When will she find her handsome prince?

Some Sense Their Presence

Some sense their presence;

their radiance,
luminous in the dark.
Others know their faults,

their imperfections,

but this makes them 
all the more attractive,

all the more 
accessible.

I cast my eyes on long poems 
from books that fall apart 
in my hands.

I leap from one stanza to another

as I descend.

So many answers 
to unknown questions,

so many poems 
that never end.