Interstitial

spaces between the chords strummed
and cords of a fishing net

windows of pause, escape, reload,
permeable and flexible

perspiring voids on the boundary of
confinement, capture, rescue

whispering mouths spanning the distance
between vibrating tendons

breathing strands of web
holding a bounty in suspense

Advertisements

I’m not Superman

Teeter and totter,
Mxyzpltk scratches, scribbles.
I reach into a fifth plane
unwind the riddle

I’m not Superman
don’t want to be
earning and angling to be
seen for what I

already see
Satisfied in solving
a puzzle, and proud enough
to cover my own news


Play

Brothers on the mountain
Grey and blue play shivers
At dusk, to get it out before
Curfew and the scolding
Of the moon

Sisters in the field,
Green and gold play tremors
At dawn, tiring themselves before
Breakfast and the swaddling
Of the sun

Lovers under the waves,
Pink and red play tangles
At midnight, grooming one another after
Mass and the awakening
Of the tide


Yuck!

Just a bubble of blood. I dabbed it with a paper towel that I took with me on the way out of the restroom.

The knuckle on my middle finger had been a problem for boxing, aching and sparking lightning that grounded itself in my wrist. But after some rest and repair, I felt it was ready again.

The last time was different. A change of plans turned into a night just for me, a trial run. No sparks. Old wraps and new gloves, though, had worked against me. This time, in round three, I felt the simultaneous cold and hot of bleeding.

Over a week, a small abrasion gave way to a slowly receding scab on top of the knuckle. Still, every time I reached for my keys, phone, or spare change in pockets that I recall were once roomier, I’d reopen the cut.

First a stream of red, later just a crimson dot. Bandages couldn’t stay in place, and lay ineffectively across the ridges. Sometimes I would notice the bleeding while typing on my keyboard or preparing to offer a handshake. More disturbing, the bandage was somewhere, hopefully in my pocket and not anywhere else.

It was never in my pocket, and I never found any of the ones I lost.


A break in the sky

Sun storm, horses pounding
through silver boulders,
lowering their heads to
snort vaporous spouts,
mist laminating their blazes,
a trailing cyclone of clouds
braiding their tails,
they land at speed,
full gallop through the lifeless
shadows of March.