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Serial (Cereal?) Poems, but not of the killing variety:

February 3, 2008

Dune Flower

I was enticed: your dark and stylish eye

amongst all that white, those brambles,

dollar-weeds. Like the brazen sister of 

the Black-eyed Susans in my grandmother’s

front garden, you rage, even in a frame

of ocean blue and falling fence posts. Splinters,

prickers, sea-oats. To all these Southern Belles

you dance flamenco: a one-act filler play,

a jewel hushed-up. Your skirts spread around

the gaping black fuzz, truncated and fringed,

sinful pink-orange, and yellow. Each petal

seems a slice of fabric, a cut of fruit, 

to be stitched up, to cover you, like so 

much lace piled up over brown legs.

Tatted Lace

Frivolitè: the gentle inculcation
of knots and loops, hitching threads
around teardrop-holes of light.

This white and gentle nothingness
spreads the tied tatted lace into petal shapes
on an early winter afternoon.

Parliament is perched at the river’s brown edge
like a sprawling pin-plumaged bird,
serious and gothic.

But my thoughts are of her:
the 1920’s “Leica” photo-card: her closed-eye smile,
and soft sepia curls winging from under a bathing cap.

Like the lark-knots, I close gaps of years in arched picots,
assembled and laced negative space—
a gentle recreation of the woman I never knew.

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