Revision of group surrealism poems.

Same beginning, different end.

Someone is running towards you,
Moving through clouds that howl for midnight,

Stretching through the ethers and
gracelessly undoing
a memory impossibly crowded and heavy-lidded.

Their fingers grasping at Chance and Time,
flutter to soothe the tender wounds,
and clear the hallways
with their strangeness and light.

Try not to turn from the new season.

Oh, clumsiness of this body!
The marrow witty and blushing,
murmurs,
“There is no cure like company”,
and this is true.



Werther’s Originals

I do not know who he is,
But I know him as the tongue knows the teeth.
He takes up the two seats across me,
an ancient Condor of a man,
odd and kingly,
chewing on a toffee,
rolling the leftover shiny wrapper into a ball with parchment hands.
He catches me in the glass reflection,
as the train gallops through a tunnel,
and he nods.