poetry – Page 4 – RED GLADIOLA

9 to 5 in October

running the treadmill
neurons denote: chilly weather
fog and rain

sweaters to be pulled
from summer hibernation

tasks that pile like firewood
against a long dark winter

eyes thread traffic
but ignore the change
of autumn leaves

stars above
a still, gray sea
who combs her faded hair
and old lovers
from her thoughts

fly away from here dear one
to the sky that I can only glimpse
while my legs become roots
and my frown petrifies

next spring, build your nest
in my branches

give me your sweet promise
your honey-tongued lies

for your barren eyes pierce
my soul and this meeting of bodies
needs a veiling

for my conscience
to look away

My ears no longer hear
but I watch your lips shape the words
and your tongue curl deftly

My eyes no longer see
but I feel your fingers shape mine
to share our secret speak

My hands are numb with cold
but your heart beats fiercely
against my bent back

You are heat itself

Your breath exhales the words
against the delicate lobe of my ear

Although they no longer hear
I know them again and again

the sunsets of my imagination
have faded to bruised plum
and the thought of Red stirs
no longer a wanting
but piques a wistful curiosity

like dust I settle and sink
mired wetly into mud

as one storm passes
another ones threatens

my sanity stretches thin

autumn scatters leaves
sunburnt early

with edges rimmed
and puckered

the mouths of ill
children
crying in vain
as they are swept away

as days grow colder
my rescued hyacinths
push up from the soil

as if expecting a new spring —
green shoots

In the dimly lit pub
she dances barefoot
the bells on her ankles
ringing

She says she comes
from the far-flung East
in that smooth, rolling tongue
of the southern hills

Yet the men pretend
not to know

And the barkeep’s daughter —

She smiles dreamily
as she washes
their empty steins