January poem

Swallowing Clouds

with each shuffle-ball-change

my vessels willed

puffs of cottony steam out of my ears

making the condensation

overhead

throw down rain

petals in between my toes

sweetness sent

three journeying eyelashes

sailing wayward on

Venice canal, knees

to ground keening

in a fetal retreat

kettles loaf & poke

under the rotted ropy hammock

BK Jan 2016

53

December 28, 2015

Now I am 53 (first birthday without my dad)

A picture of you hangs

in my head, doing what

it’s suppose to do. Reminding

me.

A room for a red sweater-

keeping track of

patterned tape,

newspaper clippings

go somewhere

else.

I get interrupted though-

everytime

I get to the best

part. The bone

of the matter.