The hearts and violins they’re passing out
don’t hold a candle to the ones we burned.
The fountain has cracked. Red rust leaks from the spout
beside the pool where once our bodies turned
as one creating underwater sun.
The courtyard where we danced is sharply paved
with broken glasses. We broke everyone.
The vineyard where in spring we misbehaved
has been cut down. I find the blackbird’s nest.
The broken glass reflects the empty shells.
I try to smile, pretending it is best
that you’re not here to hear the muffled bells
that toll the march of autumn through the plain
as the shells give up their colours to the rain.

presented June 2001 in The New Formalist ISSN:1532-558X

A poem with ‘higher math and logic‘ (?) symbols.

Please click Formula Translation with marks to see it (it’s a pdf file).

The poems that I learned as a child
– I’ve forgotten the words –
let rhythms glide by where I stand
on a rock in the creek.

I gaze at the banks where I saw
the black moccasin smile.
That was so long ago. Now I look
way upstream to the falls

remembering Grandfather laughing
while helping me climb
through cool spray and shadow to sun.
Where had we been going?