A thunderstorm’s approaching underground.
Along the shore, waves of sand
competing with the ocean,
from ancient graveyards ghosts will float
into the world, freed from roiling earth,
to the weather forecast
and I prepare our breakfast:
spinach, pastry, thoughts of eggs,
peel a purple onion, layer after layer,
until just the memory of an onion’s left.
Have you seen the day outside? The sky
is retrolescent green, with periscopic upblue
I should have told her years ago
those colors don’t exist, but too
much time has passed by now,
grains inside the china hourglass
for timing eggs she purchased
at a discount.
We met beside the water feature
at Petropolis Park,
Lidia was lolling on the plastic lily pads,
I was rowing with one oar,
and now and then we visit,
wander in forgotten squares
where wraiths and phantoms
take the evening air,
arcane acquaintances, statues
with marbled eyes and ghostly nods
Lidia’s supposed to be a swan,
some kind of waterfowl
but I’ve never seen her feathers.
end of year strategy
1 pretend it isn’t 2 mess around arting and writing 3 panic