19/52: You are a verse

You are a verse in my poem.

See, that is you up there

all by yourself.

But also intertwined
like a preposition,
or maybe a semi-colon.

Yes, you also seem to be a semi-colon;
after all these years, I still have
no idea how to place you
in my life.

By syllogistic reasoning,
you are a verse about a semi-colon.

Or, whatever.
I know you are a verse.
A verse in my poem.

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/you-are-a-verse-1

18/52: a certain tension

There is a certain tension
we live with
that gives our lives color and shape.

In particular the shape
of an inverted parabola -
a black line cutting through
textbook-white space.

When we are lucky, we live at the peak,
forces balanced -
dancing, as the angels once did,
at that dangerous precipice.

We can't choose not to have them,

these pulling forces,

we can only try to cope -
an arm flailing here,
a glass thrown there -

And out of balance means falling
whichever way the tension shifts.



audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/a-certain-tension

17/52: walking to the moon

the other day when I was walking to the moon
I grew tired and had to sit down
on the crest of a cumulonimbus

I spoke with the stars
but though they shine,
it takes them so long to say
what burns in their minds

as I left the atmosphere
putting one foot in front of the other
I considered what a long way it actually is

walking to the moon
seems like a pointless thing sometimes.

---

audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/walking-to-the-moon

16/52: in your eye

If I exist only in your eye
where do you exist
except in my eye?

Do you exist at all
except in a loop between
my eye that has your eye
which captures my existence

and melts it down
to utter nothingness?

Am I a thing that exists
only in its own eye?

15/52: waiting for a song

I'm listening for a song:
I am hoping it is the song
of the coming spring -
the song of buds appearing mysteriously
when we are not looking,
the song of purple flowers
on notes of green.

The song I hear this morning
is in the key of winter,
the wind pulling at the shingles
trying to pry the warmth
from my house.

It is composed of the same few chords -
cold,
and colder,
with occasional false promises
and an arpeggio of hard white sun.

Poco a poco, con amore, pianissimo -
come now and join the chorus,
Living Things.
We have been waiting too long
in this intermezzo.

---

audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/waiting-for-a-song

13/52: black suit

After a day like this

you have come home.

You took off your shoes at the door
as if dismounting from your horse.

The house is quiet
the sun has just gone down,
but the last fingers of its light
cushion the kitchen, living room,
stairs up to your bedroom
like an old monastery
or castle.

You slide out of your jacket
and half expect it to hit the floor
with the clang of plate armor.
But it droops from your hands
and then you have it on the hanger.

It is nothing but cloth, after all.