Irene

lurking in my mind
a feeling of a picture
I cannot translate to canvas

a lady from the forties
black and white, veiled in smoke
porcelean skin, black hair

laying, cigarette in hand
but beyond that, a haze
shrouded in what I was not told

Neys

their figures finally met at the break of fiery dawn
as hot orange sun slowly poured itself into the lake behind
just as she remembered
such as he saw before
time had converged at last
cast in warmth
his hand passed over hers

from then a child glimpsed
the lady in white
the man in grey
on his beach
he watched from the rocks
as the man's head turned
and their eyes met

for now the man understood what he could not then
the child, eyes now locked onto his
young black hair stirred gently in the wind
and he smiled incredulously
the memory held for so many years
was of her and him

Of August Afternoons

as for the afternoons
when dry heat crept down the stairs
and rubbed itself into the darkest corners
curbed by blankets over windows
reheating stacks of cd's on the floor
and faded chucks discarded by the door
empty glasses and crumpled sketches

the books and bottles saw it all
murmurs on the radio
sleeping swathed in golden light
quiet afternoons and smoggy evening
whisperings, figures retreating
warm asphalt nights under pinprick lights
and the distant orange glow of the city

now nothing left but old mutterings
of empty rooms and vacant streets