Tuesday, October 1, 2019

The Joys of Transmogrification

The dust rises into vapor.
     It's October.
The clouds recall a thousand picnics
Where all the ways you played on me
     Still ring like a melody
Sweet in the distance
     The enormities of being wronged --

Olives bronzed for harvest,
As large as mountains now
     Whitened in the sun.

Experience, like dust in the air,
     Turns physical
In this mind's eye light.
The mask of the thoroughfare 
     Seems almost a face,
As the dead fill every glow
     Streamed in low sun,
Holding old expressions.

The herons I saw as a child
     Off the Biscayne coast
Walk here in this moment
Gorging on sun before they fly.

These windows have so many ghosts
     Behind the curtains,
Knitting the invisible together.