Insomnia
Midnights crowd on steps unmoored,
where heels and shadows clump or merge.
Egos pose like fragile glass, before
they shatter empty streets with nerves.
Alleys speed the hush of dawn, and
narrow eyes to blind their skies.
It’s all about the slope of necks, the
way they love entangled curves.
Don’t trust their versions before noon, when
gods are naked stones in squares.
But watch the light that slice their tales, and
how they bloat the shape of moons.
Dissolutions
Storms are drowning
days with prayers.
Their angels hold
on winds and clouds.
Flowers bind
the rooms we house,
filled with plastic
gods we cross.
Tender flames
burn days of fear;
we pour their
ashes on our eyes.
We polish twilight’s
whispered songs,
to silence doors
that shut our moons.
Lights fall slowly
on nameless streets,
and scatter steps
that cities raise.
Our seasons sweat
the sun with stars,
where shorelines hide
in borrowed gales.
Where Shadows Swerve
We chase butterflies for angels without wings.
They land on flowers that shade the sky.
We forge clouds that miss the dawn.
They tower cities that gleam with dread.
We stand where echoes blend in roads.
They fall on streets immersed in codes.
We hang objects on walls that clash.
They shatter windows breathing sighs.
We hold on curtains that veil the night.
They feel like touch in muted shores.
Bionote
Michael Caylo-Baradi lives in California. His work has appeared in BlazeVOX, Eclectica, Galatea Resurrects, Metazen, MiPOesias, Prick of the Spindle, The Common, and elsewhere. He has also reviewed for Latin American Review of Books (UK) and NewPages.
No comments:
Post a Comment