At the cusp of getting old

I painted

a self-portrait.

Appropriately

it was Fall. 

Crimson and gold leaves 

swirl around me

in the painting.

My face is lined,

my shoulders tense,

my eyes squint in pain.

I hold a mask 

before me

of a young woman 

with blushing cheeks.

walking

seeking photos

framing with my eyes

i trip over a root

and see for the first time.

moon

recurrence

rebirth

renew

myself

each of us
in our private hell.
kafka's endless paperwork
multiplies.
bureaucrats fabricate
interminable statements
we must paste.
pink space 
won't disappear
until exactly
what they want 
is done.

5/31/2020

moon wrapped

in clouds and light

mystery and truth

meteors brief brilliance

drop to earth

hunting fate

anything you can talk about 

and everything that you can’t 

is a poem.

crystal frost on your car window

that you don’t defrost

so you can look at it longer,

ignoring the road just a bit.

the hiding place you had as a child.

your cat

definitely your fluffy monster.

the girlfriend you didn’t marry,

the sky at dawn,

a coffee break,

sex at sunset,

half moon sorrow

moon

recurrence

rebirth

renew

myself

I left in clear dawn

when you were sleeping

curly hair

peeking out from the lair

of night blue quilts

fat cheeks

small noses

eyebrows that wink

and soft smooth lips

I kissed goodnight

in lamplight

heat

rising from my thighs

tracing an inner path

to my cunt

now blushing warm

and tingling

even though

my husband’s breath

is rhythmically

softly

exhaling

in sleep