BOY WITH A PIPE
Beside a blue picture—posed, insolent
and idle—stiff as a forgotten god--
a boy waits for no one, for risen ghosts.
His stillness threatens artful violence.
Rolling a cold pipe on his palms, he nods
to himself—his gaze doesn’t recognize
loose strangers. He taps coded resentment
on the stone bench—his cold count’s always odd--
He only comes in on the days he knows
it will be empty. This picture’s his prize
in a contest you can’t enter—the room--
echoing with silence—forces his eyes
to look at what was stolen from his tomb.it.
BOY WITH A PIPE
Beside a blue picture—posed, insolent
and idle—stiff as a forgotten god--
a boy waits for no one, for risen ghosts.
His stillness threatens artful violence.
Rolling a cold pipe on his palms, he nods
to himself—his gaze doesn’t recognize
loose strangers. He taps coded resentment
on the stone bench—his cold count’s always odd--
He only comes in on the days he knows
it will be empty. This picture’s his prize
in a contest you can’t enter—the room--
echoing with silence—forces his eyes
to look at what was stolen from his tomb.it.
EYE TEST
Above her misplaced glasses floated green
mirrors and gas jets—antique details
she never saw clearly. Reflections leaned
into each other. Light kissed light—unseen,
recall—she was never sure how she’d failed.
A clock dripped seconds. She wrote out long notes
on small sheets. At night her open window
called them out like a violin. Her words
were a code she never learned—unheard
voices from downstairs, a talking machine
left on by the neighbor who never seemed
to see her. His glasses must be lost, too,
she might start to think if she ever knew
that hers were gone. She reflected poorly,
like water on a fictional moor. She
pulled that window closed when her alarm rang--
or her phone. She had secrets she couldn’t know:
She delighted in antique music, sang
dead songs, watch her green mirror glow.
BOY WITH A PIPE
Beside a blue picture—posed, insolent
and idle—stiff as a forgotten god--
a boy waits for no one, for risen ghosts.
His stillness threatens artful violence.
Rolling a cold pipe on his palms, he nods
to himself—his gaze doesn’t recognize
loose strangers. He taps coded resentment
on the stone bench—his cold count’s always odd--
He only comes in on the days he knows
it will be empty. This picture’s his prize
in a contest you can’t enter—the room--
echoing with silence—forces his eyes
to look at what was stolen from his tomb.
Above her misplaced glasses floated green
mirrors and gas jets—antique details
she never saw clearly. Reflections leaned
into each other. Light kissed light—unseen,
recall—she was never sure how she’d failed.
A clock dripped seconds. She wrote out long notes
on small sheets. At night her open window
called them out like a violin. Her words
were a code she never learned—unheard
voices from downstairs, a talking machine
left on by the neighbor who never seemed
to see her. His glasses must be lost, too,
she might start to think if she ever knew
that hers were gone. She reflected poorly,
like water on a fictional moor. She
pulled that window closed when her alarm rang--
or her phone. She had secrets she couldn’t know:
She delighted in antique music, sang
dead songs, watch her green mirror glow.
BOY WITH A PIPE
Beside a blue picture—posed, insolent
and idle—stiff as a forgotten god--
a boy waits for no one, for risen ghosts.
His stillness threatens artful violence.
Rolling a cold pipe on his palms, he nods
to himself—his gaze doesn’t recognize
loose strangers. He taps coded resentment
on the stone bench—his cold count’s always odd--
He only comes in on the days he knows
it will be empty. This picture’s his prize
in a contest you can’t enter—the room--
echoing with silence—forces his eyes
to look at what was stolen from his tomb.
