A Weed on The Curb

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #261 , for our final week. Thank you for reading & interacting with these poems over the past several years.  Cold blood works the fire bushes:  marble, serpent, maybe.  Snakehearted limestone gathers a full bouquet.  Line the tables, cook the feast over the flowers, Hang the bottles from the marble bodies. Gods are sporting tonight; Dancing under the empty jars Eyes clear as the darkness, Deep as the heavens. Hang bottles to catch the sparks, Bottles to cast from the shore Already burning from their nearness. Bottles to kindle a thousand Epics, hearts, madnesses, parties... Bottles to seed the fire bushes On some colder, newer shore. I'm not sure whether I'll be returning to weekly poetry for the time being. I might turn this blog to reading to inspires me to get through a grim and treacherous TBR that seems to swell with books that aren't quite read, even if bookmarks appear in their shallows. From June through September I'm going to

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #260  with much appreciation to Carrie & Shay & everyone. Just a reminder: if you have a poetry book, please drop a title in the comments. My TBR won't thank you, but I will. :)    I drive by the armadillos, dead where they fell. Sunlight is so heavy it folds into damp shimmers. All the roads are widening, dispersing the ditches, Grinding out parking lots, killing slow steps. I speed up; crisp winter in the passenger seat. We will arrive at the store soon; I will drag her Chill, into the store. Breathe for both of us. Brightness distorts the lots, now grown gigantic. Roads need blood, the state needs the kills. We will make it through barriers if we wear them: Dead armadillos, caliche dust, gunmetal sunshine.

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #259 . I'm the last of the fairy band  all our tricks given away  I follow wings and a sticky strand above the storm and day Farewell is a nightly tune this became goodbye An elegy trilled to carnival beat stained blue as the sky Strong as the scent of  popcorn May cola hold you fast The rope grows thin, the music faint Of the fairies, I'm the last. I am sad that this will be the penultimate poem I share with The Sunday Muse , which has been constant while I've been an irregular participant. Thank you, Carrie, for giving us this space each week!  It's been a privilege to be able to read what has been a chapbook, generated every week, by a committed and talented group of poets, several of whose books are now part of my library. Please drop a link or title below if you'll have something coming out (or that is already out). Best wishes to everyone (I'll hopefully be back next week but I'll be more emotional then...) and happy Moth