S.B.T. 350

long purple shadows cast by boulders. a silver flute plays chopin inside the top of my head which is a cave, there in the distance, with bats ratcheting. deep red velvet pain, the color is like blood, but at least it is alive, it is red. this fabric, so luminous, alluring, is untouchable. it is draped in a room painted by vermeer, carefully crumpled into a circle by little feet of cats, arranged in a brass ring basket, shaped like a crown, plumped with goose feathers. and the room is in some castle in the clouds.  only the delft geographer could imagine what all these things are for. for susan where you once were, is no more, unsettled scattered across the landscape of a hollow place where a friend is laid to rest.

S.B.T. 349

weeds

heavy metal clippers, 

dark green hoses

soil-soiled lime-green gloves,

prod the crumbled earth with love

creeper vines will reign no more!

free the ash and roses! 

as wilderness reveals its core

in secrets it discloses

we see a family of weeds, 

who squeeze between the silver shoots

of wheatgrass where the roots take hold

around a clump of trees and fruits

_

how tall and proud the weeds once stood

before i shook them loose

they offered no resistance

i gave them no excuse

they laid their lives down for the cause

of quince and tiger lily paws

for sweet perfume to trail and rise

from petals perched by their demise

ah, good weeds go to heaven