Lingua labitur
poema—nescio id quod
facio, sed ssst.

A poem glides off
my tongue—I don’t know what I
am doing, but shhh.

Meaning butterflies,
iridesces, then drains out.
Ink runs in the rain.

Mahler wafts behind
me in lilting, soaring chords.
Golden domelets pass.

Goddess Europa,
Asia, Africa, and then
the Americas.

Each evening I fall
asleep and write a lovesong.
Dear Scheherazade,

Satis! Tardum est.
Nunc dormiendum mihi,
somnienda ea.

Enough! It’s late.
I need to sleep
and dream of her.

Alcibiades
stands on the Piraeus, and
looks out and wonders.

Red deerskinned vellum
filled with cream and soft grey eyes—
Minerva and her owl.

Sweet and gentle moon,
turn your face to me, and gift
me shining silver.

Turret-crowned Cybele,
we who eat the surplus of
the Earth salute you.

Plato’s Republic.
Arizona iced tea. Dead
hall of long-dead popes.