Echo

Subway windows fogged with containment,

Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,

I am no more darker than light;

Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,

A man who was the sum of his missing parts,

Becomes an adolescent art project,

A halt settles on a counter melody,

A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,

This is beauty I reckon:

Where a disheveled desk holds the great

mysteries of life,

They say Bach is played for God,

And we are so lucky to receive an echo.

Mulberry Trees

I think of you,

Through the mulberry trees,

Low and deep,

Like your love for me,

Berries as full as your lips,

Seeds as hard as your words,

The sweetness of your touch,

Drips down my lips,

Like the blood of a bully,

Who has done too much,

I lay under you,

And you shade me

From rays determined to darken my face,

I pluck the best parts of you,

From callous fingers red and blistered,

That strum taut strings,

That gives your voice its cadence to ring,

When your branches are bare,

And has lost all its fruit to share,

I’ll till the weeds that cross your feet,

Waiting til winter’s edge encounters its spring defeat,

And think of you through the mulberry trees,

Where the sun sits low,

And the moon begins to sing.