Taconea

Red shoes, red rose,
the arc of your nape
strikes the silk flash into the pitchy deep.

Who strikes
wreathes of flame,
the heat within the black dot where the world
shakes

the hollow of bone,
the rivers of the spine, snake's
fingers lift
the hip, the calf,
the hard heel
strikes

the echoing ground that you
strike

that you
free

that you
shake.

I Abide

The azure is bleached.
The black branches of elms
embrace greying roofs.

My eyes and the air
adjust their veils,
stiffened in the chill.

My warm cat
naps on the ottoman.

I abide
between silence and nightfall
remembering the colours of the city.

Time turns on the edge of day
into the timeless eye of dusk.

Photograph

Ginger tom on the fence-post
contemplates the green leaves.
Framed in my camera he slinks
across the gate and down the palings
to acquaint me with his green gaze.
He gets a pat.
He sashays through his gate.
The beaten boards of the cottage
peel antique pigments.

The green leaves drink the sun.