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Personal Note:

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Poem

This chair has chipped paint.     
Its shadow gangly 
in the light spilling through 
the window. A deep 
buttercup bisque steeps.

Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled 
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.


Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like 
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on 
an LCD screen. Crumbs.

Feathers stick to the cheeks, 
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.  
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid

air. Like the spectral
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great

grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood 
perishes, stabs the skin.

Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears 
the hushed air- a summons: 
her son. Long ago 
an apollyon. Starless.

The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued, 
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.

Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-

better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted 
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black 

holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.

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