#284
#284
by Kieran Borsden
I hold a hole in my palm –
(where clouds are born,
readied to rain fantasy –
droplets forged from evaporated
dreams
she seeps by false
fortune’s sparkle –
refracted below the pool
of lost treasures,
dying warmth)
to undo (my crucifix) –
(to close the distance
in my eyes; catch
the blossoming truth
threaded behind
her vapid state without success;
she pirouettes, seen through)
my clasp – the darkness.
#482.1
(a response poem)
my hand within a hand
cup two lenses together
to form a periscope
of broken mirror halves
that make me look taller
up here, in the atmosphere,
where warmth has died
chilblains set upon me
leach my nail beds blue
beset with crescent moons
that harvest my grip
into loose bundles
spilling shards wherever,
mostly on the ground
Nearby our drafty door broke free
what a wind kicked the hinge off
letting the cat in a ninth time
as it begins to rain hungry dogs
first just silvery slobber threads
then a downpour of clumsy paws
and persistent jagged lips
Here we are both slathered,
my blind head in the clouds~
your eyes scrunched listening
for what I tell you I see,
while our bodies spoon
wrapped tight in a blanket
under griddle drippings
served ready wrapped
with half a baggie of sliced apple
two burritos to-go
served frozen to the weather
so it would quit howling