Tuesday, December 3, 2013


The air is keen, palpable.
Its stringed instrument
                 plays throughout the house.

The first chord
is the is glide of silk.
               A woman moves in her robe
toward the bed. Pale hair
falls along  pale sleeves;
she becomes
          the window’s moonlight.

The second chord
is the pulse of bone.
                A man turns exposing
his shoulder to the light.

Throbbing with pain,
he longs for her hand
to rub in soft heat.

The third chord
is the burst of wood.
                A fire lights the room
as  cherry crackles
into fragrance and flame.

Earlier, she carried kindling
in from the porch.
and snapped  several branches
                Her fingers trembled.
 The maroon bark 
                felt slippery
                as The New Year’s promise.

And the fourth chord
is the stress of stone.
              A crack widens on the steps,
a void waiting to fill
with pine needles
                or sparrow’s down.

 Something that stays.

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