In the west, two rivers merge,
the flows of past and future mingle
with the guests, a meet and greet.
From the shore, in a certain quality of light,
you may glimpse a flight in grey,
a moving blueprint, a system of soft levers.
Cyphers, written on the foliage
in efflorescent mimicry,
will come and go to seed,
and you may touch a lesser happiness
before the wheel of ending
makes a single turn.
We’re streaky light in morning darkness,
if not that then something else,
defined by artifice and circumstance,
woven in a stranger’s scarf, Italian knit.
My requiem for the toaster.
Is it under warranty?
You should take it back.
shared laundry rules
- Do not eat the soap,
or suggest the same
to an acquaintance.
- Do not penultimately decide
that you will wash a household pet
or your current outfit, in situ.
- Check all pockets for relevant receipts,
including toaster purchases,
even if you’re wondering
who left the scarf in the machine,
and whether they used the delicate cycle.
Or if, when it is half past two,
why the soap is half past two,
why your clothes are half past two,
and why the stranger’s scarf is half past two.
The docket went through the wash,
and when I pegged it on the line,
an origami crow flew down,
pecked it off to feed her young.
My counterpoint on keyboard
played a dark accompaniment,
a little capriccioso, ma non troppo,
and I confessed a peccadillo or two.
I had a breakfast craving,
an impatience for some high-speed toast.
I put the toaster in the microwave,
and the microwave on the stove.
I have several requiems to write.
artwork requiem for a toaster (detail above)