To a Photograph of Someone I Don't Know Named Orene
Orene your name
makes me want to sit down
at an oilcloth covered table
and eat buttered grits.
It makes me want to climb out the window
at midnight and elope with a man
named Jasper Sam.
Your name makes me want
to hop a freight and sing
out of tune in the cold.
Orene. I want to move into your name.
That O
is a big round door, r is the walking stick
in the elephant's foot just inside
and ene is the scene
the linoleum on the floor
the cabbage rose wallpaper
I want to live there, Orene,
where it's quiet, like it's quiet inside
your name, Orene,
unpopulated,
invisible,
long gone.
Sweet as breakfast
frying in a skillet
sweet
as rain
on the still dark roof.
Recipe For Losing
One thing I know about this street:
it's not the sea. Whish of rain
silences the weaponized light.
It's a singular feeling, a lonely thing
to not know the hour or
what the day might bring if it comes.
They always told me
there was magic here and I think
what magic there might have been
stole any reality I had left.
Walking forgets how.
Even breathing wearies.
Loss has no corners.
There's no place
to sit down.
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