Canvas
for Karen Craigo
Like a painter, the world is always being reborn
before your canvas. Sometimes it is a child
playing in the open, sometimes a tower
with impossible scaffolding. You think
of a shrouded figure, a refugee from one
of Bergman’s dreams. Other times trees
rise up like a hand ready to swat away
any annoyances. Brick by brick, how things are
built or decay things are revealed—the inner
workings. You sit and observe. Take it all in,
you were exhaling paint only moments ago,
as ghosts fell into the sky like clouds. Even now,
someone is dreaming of painting you just like this.
Night Café
for Sheri Swaner
You are sailing across the street
under a blue night with anxious stars.
You’ve made it to the café with it’s tables
and chairs. There is still the smell
of tonight’s special wafting out of the kitchen.
Something with lemon and fish.
You sit down—before you know you’ve done it.
You order an espresso although it’ll keep you
up all night. That’s okay, you desire it for the smell
more than for the drinking. All the warm light
of the café seems to be rushing out upon you.
The small cup arrives. People are floating
up and down the street. You are sipping in the hot rich
darkness—so what if you stay awake—
it’s a gorgeous night and you’ve decided you could live
forever in this one moment
