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Foment in the Firmament
(after )

There is a stirring above the stillness,
a slow‑brewed unrest
braiding itself into the blue.

Cloud‑veins thicken,
their edges bruised with light,
and the air tastes of iron and distance.

Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance,
curling through the rafters of the sky,
its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born.

Birds wheel lower,
their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush,
as if tracing the script of what is coming.

The sun, half‑veiled,
becomes a coin passed from palm to palm
in a game no one admits to playing.

And I stand beneath it all,
feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy —
the foment in the firmament —
gathering its syllables,
ready to speak in thunder.

.

For the Reader Who Will Not Stay  

(after a list of three truths)

I have pared the bread

to a single crumb,

so it will not weary your jaw.

I have drained the wine

to a thimble‑swallow,

so it will not cloud your head.

I have locked the third door

and pocketed the key,

for I know how you hate to find

yourself in a room you did not expect.

You prefer the garden gate:

open, low‑hinged,

a path you can stroll

in your lunch hour.

You prefer roses already cut,

vase‑ready, no thorns

to coax your blood.

Still— in the rafters of the stanza,

I hang small bells, and in the mortar

between these plain bricks

I press a coin, face down.

It will tarnish there, waiting

for the one pair of eyes

who sees that the wall is hollow.

.

"poetry's reply"

I hear your ants —
their soft feet tapping the inside of my skull,
counting the cracks.

Truth is only the name we give
to the lie we can stand beside without choking.

The ballroom is empty now,
but the gown keeps swaying in a draft
no one admits is there.

In the folds of my palm,
a match, unlit —
enough to promise warmth
but not enough to scare the dark.

And still, I say,
Love you —
not as an answer,
but as a rope tossed into the air
for both of us to catch.

.

.