Your Octopus Heart

In the rush toward spring
your octopus heart
tires quickly.

Guests spy on you
over a neatly placed
centerpiece.

You’ve chosen burnt umber
umbrels and tatted
Queen Anne’s Lace.

Dinner chat turns to seasons.
Your octopus heart
tires quickly.

[RK, 2/8/21]


Yet Another Winter (after Pinching Weeds)

Those weeds sprout in your dreams
and fill pouches with pollen and
yellow composites.

Flip-flop between what is expected
and what you thought
you wanted.

[RK, 2/8/2021]


Full Moon Burning Ritual

A setting moon lights
the garden wall.

A rising moon frackles
in bare tree branches.

Going up or down
takes on new meaning.

“I will let go” becomes
“I am letting go.”

[RK, 2/8/21]


New Moon Burning Ritual

No bucolic names
for that which is unseen.

Look up, redeem
your lost faith.

[RK, 2/8/21]


The X-Ray Possibilities of Fig #5

Have you considered tomography as opposed to geography?
Look in instead of on. That lead shield is just a shield.
Every shield eventually yields.

Have you considered psychology instead of sibilant undertones?
Co-dependency is so 1980s. Put those pruning shears and
cross-country skis to good use.

Have you considered how round stones look like dinosaur eggs?
Your guests cannot tell the difference. Consider shirring them
into breakfast or picnic crêpes.

Have you considered the side effects of your X-ray vision?
More noise is added to the therapy file. Blueberries and
fallen trees call your name aloud.

[RK, 2/8/21]