Friday, November 7, 2008: At Carlos Miele, Rio

The crowd swiveled toward her as she took her seat
Like wedding guests turn to face a bride

I’ve been told that flowers obey the same rule
And stretch their necks toward light

But in botany or astronomy or ceremony
There is distance between the puller and pulled

An invisible rope straining through air like heat
from unseen hand to unseen hand

Wednesday, November 6, 2008: Rio!!

Musculature

Our movement through the world is written on the body,
my friend (the former dancer) explained.
She gestured to her legs, the muscles below her knees
swelling like the throats of singing bullfrogs.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008: Big Thanks to Petite Mirochka

Scripted names, scrolled in gold
or etched onto metal plates
like dog tags (on soldiers or dogs)

trimmed photos of babies
enclosed in clamlike lockets

the geometry of religion,
emblems, tokens, charms, rings
too small for the finger

dangling against collarbone
and chest, finding the
valleys of our breath.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008: On the Street...Pins on Vintage, NYC

Phrenology

My great Grandfather used to spin the story
when I was four. He'd had his head read
as a teen, discovered he was meant
to be a navigator, to translate the sea.
He told me as he tucked me into bed,
Just between us--you got my temperament.

Monday, November 3, 2008: On the Street...Brothers, NYC

Primary colours evoke playtime.
Building block, crayon hues
to stain fingers and smudge walls.

Plastic toys, tiny shaped erasers,
pots of dried up red and blue--
these all share a smell:
vaguely sweet and powdery,
the scent that clings
to the slept-on pillow's face.