Tell Me
Turned away, my lover murmured,
I actually think that others often see us more clearly than we see ourselves.
Into her neck I agreed.
How can any of us do otherwise?
A story is a re-telling, every word a reflection
of something other. Little good it did Narcissus
to stare and stare. And stare.
My lifetime, I wonder, and have wondered
how it shall end. Holding I am lovely!
to a mirror.
!ylevol ma I
Better that someone else should see this.
And tell me.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
Here We Are Now How can I sleep, leaving so much unread. Notice, it’s not a question. How can I leave here with so much unwritten. Again, no one asking. Why should I climb aboard a train I bought no ticket for, clacking toward a stop I want not. I like when my chest goes up, from the down. No desire to leave it there, flat. Porter, tell someone else this is their stop. Or another, “Here we are now.” I’m nowhere near done. In fact, I do not remember agreeing to a single – You know what? [first question] I can carry that, if this is my damn stop. Already the trees that flew past my window for days are missed missed missed. I would climb them. Would. Wood. What I desire. And trees. I recall a lifetime of such speculation, but God, these bags are filled with gravity. And [second question] how far am I to drag them? There were as many books before you were born. Yes, but don’t tell me that, not now. And as much unwritten – oh please, no more questions. Notice, no one was asking one.© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
Squirrel
Oh, so humiliating, to be reduced
To such – such irreducibility.
To have this one, accentuating feature
so – so – accentuated.
I try to hide it, yet can’t.
It’s there. It’s there, I must admit.
Confounded bushiness,
how I despise thee.
I’d prefer “puff-cheeked,”
“buck-toothed,” or “talon-footed.”
But no. The accursed appendage
shall surely chase me graveward.
Would it help you, dear rodent?
I promise you, I swear.
I shall never once, when referring to you
use the term, “bushy-tailed.”
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
She Listened She listened, while I said things. None of them [my things] made sense. Even to me, truth be known [but it wasn’t]. It [my words] made sense, not. But she was listening, so on I went. Out the window, beside her left eyebrow some geese migrated south. I saw them but she didn’t, because she listened. A jet landed. I saw the wheels come out, and the leaves in that tree turned orange. [Still she listened] and on, like bees I droned, making honey. Flipping a page from October to November she fixed her gaze on my babble. I missed not a beat, but many points were lost and the rain barrel filled with cold water. White flecks of ice frosted the pane, and with one breath the chill was gone. It was not my breath, but hers. In back of it was the word, “What?”© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
Empty Skull of the Poetess What of all her musing if it comes to this? Socket and jaw, lips that shall not kiss beyond the compass of her time and place. Recall the sadness of her thoughtful face, the scratch of quill in candled bliss? Oh, I do, I do. And few knew her my friend as we did. ‘Tis so, agreed! To what end shall we commit this find, will it rest beside that of her husband, but blessed above his station? This, I would intend. Well then, let us carry them to the tomb where they shall forever reside, in whom they have believ’ed. None wrote like her, nor jested as he. But let God himself confer, Yorick’s wife wrote verse when in the womb.© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
