Thursday, October 1, 2009

K.A. Efetor
G.M. Tarmann
Please Do Not Become A Moth

I’ve caught you beginning to look crepuscular,
soft and lost, your edges singed by simple daylight;
at your sides, arms now part wing – like two flags
of surrender the enemy never bothered to notice.
Loss has shrunk you so much even a sparrow
might devour you. When I see you again, I know
you will look like just a man. But once the buried
secret reveals itself, that darkness only grows. So I’m
making sure the moon knows how much you need
its soft cool glow. And I’m folding tin foil into flowers,
filling them with sugar, tying them to leafless branches,
one way of adding a little bit of summer to what now
can only be winter. To me, you will not be coming home
again ever, though home is still my hope for you.

What Happens To Money In My House

A wonderful artist friend sent me a check to pay for something that didn't need to be paid for. After the check
had been in my house for a few hours,
it mysteriously transformed into what you now see. Non-negotiable, I'd say.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Once in awhile, usually on a rainy evening, it becomes visible. . .
When I was twenty eight, I had a dream about a raven who
came to my door with a ring in its beak. A wishing ring. I
still wear it though your first impulse might be not to believe me.
It is, after all, made of dream-metals and so, invisible. . .