All heft and cloud

capped white souls

froth sky blue 

Riddled (new version of "Anyway"

I wish to die a slow death

riddled with something

incurable -

lose my mother tongue

the ability to smell fries and vinegar

or new rain on the fur of spring violets.

My cat curled, pushed

against the weak flesh of my belly

her purr a movement of fur

keeping time to the metronome

of the bedside clock,

my breath a rattled score

sung to the earthworm turn of seasons

Postcard From Here

Twenty-six days

of stories and ghosts

scribbled caricatures

sketches and silhouettes

shadows inked over cobbles

in old Montmartre a decent man

sells word art behind a beat up desk

a curl of smoke

singes the rafters grey

he calls me kind

the gristle of his beard 

mutters it

as twice he kisses me