Mirage After Mirage

Mirage After Mirage

A sly joy in not owning anything, we drove on.
A sudden thrill in our unknowing, we listened.
Generations of guilt washed away -- sailing
toward mirage after mirage in that rented car.

Your hair a pennant whipped out the window
destination undestined. Thinking ourselves on
the Vermont Trail we landed in New Hampshire
-- not even a shrug of mistake between us.

Checking in, we owned a town unknown to us.
Ate Chinese food uneaten in China. I gave you
your nickname. Mira. Short for mirage. Dreams
shivering on a highway ahead of us, in the sun.

©Ciprianowords, Inc. 2011

Reckless

Reckless

We were on that ferris wheel, suspended
death begging for insanity to outweigh reason
and you all ears, unfastening the safety bar.

We were on that ferry. You leaned so far over
I had to reel you in like a squirming dolphin
tasting my own heart, my saliva like a rope.

Jesus Christ, woman. On the dance floor.
Climbing on the stage as I flailed alone --
you played that guy's bongos like Sheila E.

We were at the casino. I hid in my hands
when you told that high-flyer he could not
sustain the next roll of the "god-damn" dice.

Later, as we sat at the bar with him, and you
continued in your counsel -- it was just then I
realized you are my best shot at living a life

that is wreckless.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2011 --

First Snowfall

First Snowfall

As tardy as I can recall, this year held back.
We sat at a picnic table far beyond the season
smoking, talking. Not talking - and a grey sky.

A white piece of it fell on my black sleeve.
Here in mid-November, I thought of Halloweens
when I brushed it, scads from from my shoulder.

I watched this lone flake die against my heat
just as you said, Did you see that? The corners
dissolving, fading slowly but all at once?

Four words formed in my mind and came out.
I thought I was the only one witnessing that
first snowfall. Your answer has melted me, since.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2011 --

Without Name

Without Name

Another rivulet ran down my back, thrashing
as I did at the brush, branches and leaves
falling to the side in a haphazard pile. I will
build my home in this perfect overgrown spot.

Tonight a bonfire of what should not be here
will light up -- Tripping headlong hand on shin
and axe in the grass I then saw the foundation.
Wincing, sitting upright, encased by four walls.

Within a house that once was, and is now not
I sat, not the first to desire this view of the lake.
What of that family, what century-dead dreams
still linger among these thistles and brambles?

Rising to continue, I pictured this added task.
I must smash up this old cement -- When my
great-great grandmother called her husband in
to dinner, what word, what name did she utter?

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2011 --