My Life on Earth.

Ghost planets, with
orbits like smoke rings
from mother's cigarettes.
The thin kind, that formed
an insubstantial fleck
of cherry red
as it ferried in and away
from her mouth.

Year after year, they go.

One after the other, as if drawn on
by the phantom trail
of the last.

Now it is fall. November is all
that's left when autumn
shakes loose its calico mane.
Now just the sky, and its
cluster of milk-white eyes
watching through the spread
of shadeless trees.

I am still here.
I trace the narrow ellipses
of each planet's outbound path.

Falls Church, I

The windows become mirrors.
The night squats darkly on untarred rooftops,
The long, flat expanse of suburb-turned-city,
The buildings that barely rise, the razored heads
That barely nick the skyline.

The Long Summer

I wish we were married in the springtime,
before August's yowling heat,
before that long, long interlude
to summer's narrow reprieve.

The Faithful.

His eyes are moorings.
Bright silver tethers
threaded through my palms.
chains that clasp
my hands together
in prayer or supplication
so that when he turns to leave,
my body heaves after him.

He feeds me a secret grace,
bit by bit, like breadcrumbs.
A blood trail that leads to
some untold, boundless glory;
to a God that knows, that lives
in the steel of his glances,
and uses them like a blade.

First Evening in Fall

A call grows thick in the trees,
with uncounted throngs of frogs
or insects. Today is the first
day of fall, though summer still heaves
a pregnant sun across the sky.
A cool undercurrent is carrying in
my first Virginia winter.

The austerely unkempt citizens
of the DC metro, in their busy repose.
They unfurl ironic bluegrass melodies down
the main drag of green spaces
designated for communal rest.
They come together and breathe
a chorus of sighs. It is strange
to the uninitiated. I watch the daylight
dwindling under an impassive fleet
of cumulonimbus. Alone.
The far away, happy din.

Sketch II

The hat is a felted roof
over her head, its broad eaves
bearing down on her face.
Her nose stands out gracelessly
from the brim. The rest of her,
demure, sheathed in solemn
navy floral that falls down
to a slick patent heel.
She must be a witch. Something
off the silver screen.
Barely resurrected, she gains
a flight of stairs, just in time
to shoot me a stern look,
glossy and cold, like a silver arrow,
to admonish me for not crossing
my legs in a skirt.