The longer I lived in my car
on the road aimless the more I
wanted to lose myself. Everywhere
was a mirror & the only way to go
was into the murk of past &
uncertainty of tomorrow. It was like
pedaling the gas for days in the mud.
Tires spinning, going nowhere.
The same me to greet at each
destination: The Grand Canyon.
Austin. Keystone Lake
in Oklahoma had drowned itself
in a Paul Klee watercolor. I
wanted its depths as my own.
The pole in the lake.
The pole in the trees.
My eyes in the lake.
My eyes in the sky.
(originally published in Plum Tree Tavern, Spring 2019)
Walking through the galleries on High Street
absorbing art, the watercolors bleed together–
a blue-green pond carries the weight of ducks.
The familiar arches of the Short North beneath
gray clouds, strokes of paint whoosh cerulean
onto wall, a window with its subject unmoving.
I wait stock-still for the art to understand me,
as if a painted cloud could somehow awaken
within something akin to the sound of wind
on the lake in the presence of trees who long
lost their leaves, age marked by a reception to
desire. With whom will I share my barren age,
those outermost rings which mark the end
(originally published in ‘the vacant hinge of a song‘, courtesy of Origami Poems Project)