Daredevil

Daredevil by Michael R. Burch There are days that I believe (and nights that I deny) love is not mutilation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There are tightropes leaps bereave: taut wires strumming high brief songs, infatuations. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were cannon shots’ soirees, hearts barricaded, wise . . . and then . . . annihilation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were nights our hearts conceived untruths reborn as sighs. To dream was our consolation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were acrobatic leaves that tumbled down to lie at our feet, bright trepidations. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were hearts carved into trees: tall stakes where you and I left childhood’s salt libations . . . Daredevil, dry your eyes. Where once you scraped your knees; love later bruised your thighs. Death numbs all, our sedation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. The Effects of Memory by Michael R. Burch A black ringlet curls to lie at the nape of her neck, glistening with sweat in the evaporate moonlight ... This is what I remember now that I cannot forget. And tonight, if I have forgotten her name, I remember ... rigid wire and white lace half-impressed in her flesh, our soft cries, like regret ... the enameled white clips of her bra strap still inscribe dimpled marks that my kisses erase ... now that I have forgotten her face. Squall by Michael R. Burch There, in that sunny arbor, in the aureate light filtering through the waxy leaves of a stunted banana tree, I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath, the clattery implosions and copper-bright bursts of the bottoms of pots and pans. I saw your swollen goddess’s belly wobble and heave in pregnant indignation, turned tail, and ran. The Tally by Hafiz aka Hafez loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lovers don't reveal all their Secrets; under the covers they may count each other's Moles (that reside and hide in the shy regions by forbidden holes), then keep the final tally strictly from Aunt Sally! "Lu Zhai" ("Deer Park") by Wang Wei (699-759) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Uninhabited hills ... except that now and again the silence is broken by something like the sound of distant voices as the sun's sinking rays illuminate lichens ... Old age, believe me, is a blessing. While it’s true you get gently shouldered off the stage, you’re awarded such a comfortable front row seat as spectator. — Confucius, loose translation by Michael R. Burch