“Ode to Linger”

Berlin nights a watered bridge

still under church’s wolfs

bane remedy cure the

spark underneath a watered

bridge its occupants dressed

so overtly you’d think you

would of noticed them

a long time ago before

your eyelids painted hell

above your bed

where he scratched his

likeness with his tongue

over that watered, creaking

bridge and the light

found no solitude in what

it gave thee dead beauty

atop an almond vendor’s hat

traverse the watered bridge

with a purple orchid stuck

the belladonna stripped

under a black, Berlin sky.

“Furnished Blush”

One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.

He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.

She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.

It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.

He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.