Saturday, March 1, 2008

Wayne Wolfson

Water Song

Somewhere, in the dark, she hides her secret wishes.
Again, the boy-girl thing.
Come on in, the water's fine, for the Sharks.
Her blues.
A treacherous kiss finds my lips.
Where are we?
According to the informant, caught.
Dancing, wrapped around each other like good poetry.
Where are we?
In between rounds, putting her blues in motion on the dance floor,
hiding from all tomorrows.

A Bowl Of Cloves

It was a sound that pulled my eyes towards it. Now she is heart
broken, happy at last.
It was me, it always is.
We danced around in the water until I made her cry.
Shipwrecked, tiny Gods cling to the bit of stump which breeches
the lagoon's surface.
How long have they been there? Who has noticed?
The here and now. It is forever empty here. Her heart. My God,
my God. I sat staring at the pool. I should, I won't.
The influence of lethargy and an appetite which has become boring.
I watch jets of water move the vortex around.
Now, a fallen leaf is caught, even still with this change of season,
always the same pattern of movement.

Blue Tears

I was new in town, so there was a certain logic to my motive. To
learn the map
of her skin.
The silence that filled the space between us after we un-joined made
her uneasy.
she would hide behind a plume of smoke or talk.
“I was sixteen the first time I tasted blood. I got some ink to
celebrate.” She told me many times, but only if she thought I wasn't
paying attention.
She repeated it so many times it was easy for her to remember,
which was good because it wasn't true. She did have the tattoos
though, there was a story in there somewhere.
When she was excited her skin would quiver, causing them to dance.
When she
was sad they'd turn blue, washed away by tears in a process I caused
but wasn't
allowed to see.
I could imagine though. Even now they move with the motion of
something in a
Sheets stained a spent blue. Lone witness to a solo dancer. Evidence.


I had my drink. There was the spoon too. I do not know why it was
there. All we ever did was drink.
I began to wave it, as I talked. That did not seem right. I held it.
This. The spoon
out of place, a prop from a play somebody forgot to stage.
I tapped my glass. Shimmering green circles spread. They quiver,
limpid greens,
Degas, about to give voice to a secret.
No matter how much force I apply it always starts at the edge.
It is the rhythm I must vary. I imagine Salome and her veils backed
by a Bop quartet.
It is no good without you to dance with.
Falling, there is the sound of tin as the spoon hits the table.


Death is private, but eventually we are all there.
Tiny yellow flowers shot up from in-between the rocks. These little
patches of color could hypnotize if you walked the whole shore.
Now she is on top.
Many rocks go without her flaxen hair.
There are some greens to be seen too.Thin violent jags.
This morning, coming out of the shower, I thought I heard her laugh,
but it was only yesterday.

* Previously published in Bluepepper, June 5, 2007

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