There are not many, Philomene;
Muse of Strength,
Queen of Impoverished Splendor,
Rich in Word, Garbed in Sunset
And serenaded by seagulls.

There are not many Philomene,
Who can find the Buddha
In a line of a poem,
The dying throes of a cockroach,
Or a shard of terracotta.

There are not many, Philomene,
Who will match your vision
Or your sibylline voice
As it resonates through the Ages
In each and every poet's ear.

There are not many, Philomene,
Who greet black-skirted Death
With a smile as you rise to
Take the hand of your Caliph
And dance through the open door.






after equinox

fused together under
a precariously placed umbrella
canadian cold suspended
by thirsty mouths and hands
that seek warmth under
folds of conventionality
impervious to driving rain
soaked feet and
drenched belongings
we meld our bodies
against the passion
flowing around
and through us
until the lightning
illuminates
the waiting cab
below
we depart for
clean sheets and
dry rooms
certain and ready
to ride the tide






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