How to Rouse a Pewter Sky

Start at the edges

where it begins to fold

into frozen pond,

run your fingers slowly

between that tiny seam of earth and sky,

warm gradually,

feel for the ember,

it's under thin ice,

press it to your palm

allow that cool rind of doubt to soften

wrap it thrice around

your first thought after waking,

blow them both a kiss

with swish of swallow

it can scatter stupid notions

about brittle and hope and winter.

there, already

this steely mood shifts,

pewter sky to morning robe;

the rest is duck soup.

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Temerity

Helen holds hands with thunderheads. It helps when she's weak in the knees, lightning running down abductors, running down bones. Even temple guards succumb to such days, soft as pillows - scarlet velveteen on silk sheets. Pink cyclamen bells the air, and Helen cut her traces. Bridget dreams the summer wind. Its susurrate moan rises in waves, swells with tides of sandalwood to chariot the night. She spins rhapsody around its howl, dawns a golden jet stream on spangled festoons of cirrus. Weak knees fly off with yellow wind, before Bridget stills the night. Sicily wets her lips with limoncello, quells the rabble of heartache, the clatter of waiting. She rings goblets like temple bells, makes a sound map for lost days. Her boat of pink sand brims in blood oranges and cyclamen. Lightning festoons the rabble, Sicily finds Helen’s hand.

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What the Muses Leave Behind

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