The Golden Age
A Russian émigré
with access
to the unconscious
loaded a brush
with black pigment.
It was not like today.
There were flowers
you could eat.
***
Annunciation
1
A black half-moon, red circles below it like breasts. The sounds in the grass disturb the neighborhood’s grief.
2
A dagger-tongued horse peeks in. Black lines of rain veil the troubled
queen. The man in overalls who has begun drinking heavily again smiles
and smiles.
3
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. A flower is a fox in a hole.
4
With the arrival of summer, such winds. The movement of knife in shell never faltered.
***
Moving Out
We packed our belongings – blue triangle, high, philosophical forehead, dog bowls – in a delivery van. The butcher who loaned it to us was missing a fingertip. We didn’t stop until we made the border with Michigan, our celebratory breakfast consisting of takeout coffee and Camel cigarettes. The clouds off to the west had a slightly worried expression. One looked like a dour old farmer, another like his farmhand Charlie.
More poetry at Used Furniture.
