Dreams are like drones
before dying, affirming their veracity,
they off-spring new dreams.
That one time alone.
And then, the Reign of the Queen Bees.
Someone's gotta win
When I was a little girl, I would make confetti out of mementos.
All of them — which I would attach to a white sheet.
The sky was a colorful patch.
These days I'm just more inclined to leave them off to the side
and — wherever I can — I omit them.
The sky is an adhesive —
an injury right up my right sleeve
that I play whenever I feel like it.
Caffè corretto at the Assembly/Line Café
I envy the order of glasses
in a line
and colored bottles in a row
at the bar in the morning
the honking getting stirred in
It's complex, remaining
focused inside the cup
without wiping out the gray mundane
between sky and concrete
earth so like the whites
of my eyes when I'm blind
and I slide. I'm merely looking
for some means of attack
against the steely silence
in my empty gulps.
Then I pat my soul back
into my purse and go on my way.