The Downcast Dreamer
Tonight in this limpid ball
it's just me
and the alleyway mourning doves
saying to hell with it all.
I surround myself in miniature
ornamental beauty
because it's easier to live
in watery glitter of snow-globes
than search for the ineffable
in the perfume of the city's
rust and dream
white laced with sticky sorrow
and the ash of rage.
I'm turning mermaid and a bit sea-witch
my heart with the sexless ocean
shiny hard and gaudy,
while the doves get drunk like pigeons
hoot tintinnabulations of angels
and soundless blessings
to empty arms.
(The Downcast dreamer was previously published
online at Thundersandwich and thewordparty.)
