medieval school
medieval art
medieval medicine
medieval death
medieval
medieval
no poem

Alexandra

I see Alexandra everywhere.
Every person, you are Alexandraa,
and Alexandra, you are every person.
So it goes with friends who
aetherize.
They are not made of
the same fire, air, water, earth.
Their bodies may be,
but
their spirit,
that is more in the minds.
Imagined, created, and so never
there.
I recreate you,
Alexandra, when I talk to someone else,
who has a sameness of appearance,
and impose
a sameness of spirit.
For a moment, it is as if you are there.

book shelf space envy

Envy, ever around my neck, choking me
with your poison. My throat turns blue
when I can't spit you out, hissing as you
burn the floor.
Envy for the space to put all these books,
these treasures, that will otherwise
end up given away and I regret their
leaving, my orphaned books for lack of
shelf space.
How ever can I decide to keep Kafka or
Tolstoy, Orwell or Lem. Books I may
only ever open once to read, but delight
in seeing their smiling covers, smiling
at me, remembering our time together.
To have such space as I can have bookshelves.
Now that would be something.

I want to dive in,
but why must I dive down?
I want to fly up,
and spread my wings
wider,
wider,
Icarus.

Orange

I suck the pulp from the orange
and the peel stings the corners of
my mouth with its pesticide laden
bitterness.
There was a time when I ate oranges
right from the trees and plucked
them from the branches just
as they fell into my hand.
I never lived in Florida,
but there is a picture of me with a blue macaw,
somewhere in a photo album.
I don't remember oranges like they are
today, but I also don't remember
you like you are today.