Turn Turn Turn

Each spring they return,
bound to renew small wonders–
Innocent by turns.

(Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Year of the Snake

Night swallowing its
own tale of snake swallowing
its own tail of night.

(Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Seer

How little they know,
of her flights beyond reason–
Her world, winged, widens.

(Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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I Don’t Wanna Work on Daddy’s Farm No More

Nesting, she brooded
on the future of free range–
No claims to hold her.

(Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Disintegration (The Cure)

No sitters to tend,
solvent to its own winter–
If these floors could talk.

(Installation by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Girl, Interrupted

The girl in the chair
is no longer the girl in the chair,
she is neither here nor there,
she is always and forget-me-not,
soul-spray and glacial uproar
causing a siege,
she is the spidery patterns
of her exploded heart,
woven in to the ritual symmetry
of a fibrous arc,
where a girl once sat,
once upon a time, forever.

(Instalation by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Body Double

It would be the last time,

the last thinning whatever

that gave night its fool’s edge

and lyrical tilt—

Scraping half-moon fingernails

against famished odds,

he briefly paused to consider

the bottomless gorge

of a hungry ghost

demanding of its host-body

a moveable feast.

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The Odds

He had searched high and low,
mostly low,
but he knew his fate, rigged to electrical impulses
and happenstance,
waited somewhere between a wrong number
and an empty glass.
He squeezed the lucky rabbit foot
in his pocket,
a prayer, worn and frayed,
from years of last chances
renewed.

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Vertical

One of those lighted windows
would change his life forever—
It was matter of calculated ascent,
and guessing right
for once.

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Some Like It Hot

Traversing,

in a beat shuffle

and worn cadence,

many oblique side streets

and shadow-stained back alleys

to arrive at where he now stood—

the white-hot lure

and rigged bait

of a suspect angel,

who played hard to get,

beckoned with an ineffable wink.

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