Salt and fresh water
mix in the estuary,
ocean and rivers,
the clouds over all.
I came here at the end of
my life, so it seemed.
The clouds redouble
over the bay, luminous
and dark signs of life.
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
Cat Wang on Snow
Master lets me in
out of the snow, makes little
kissing noises. Cute.
I shake off fresh flakes.
He lacks curiosity
as to creation
out of nothing. Give
me the window seat; the snow
falls time out of time,
buries the garden.
I suppose his excuse is
another deadline.
That Walking Stick
Before I knew that
I loved you I made a walking
stick just for you. I
pulled it from some ditch—-
useless, crooked, and knobby,
but with sandpaper
and elbow grease, nights
of passionate oblivion,
it more than did the
job. Its gleam surprised
us both. Where does such beauty
come from if not love?
The Rest
A mild fall day, not
cold, not warm. The ocean breathes
in and out a few
miles away. Outside
the windows the trees shimmer;
I’m staying put. I
run my eyes over
a familiar pale page:
how well we have come
to know each other!
As for the rest, life’s secret
love provides, provides.
Encounter
People stop me and
say, ‘You’re not from around here;
I recognize you.’
Our breaths mix in the
cold. Flesh speaks to flesh, but who
exactly? Words fail.
I go in. Coffee.
Dante at the old bookmark.
Flesh of words. Our flesh.
Cat Wang‘s Contentment
As I settle down
in my master’s lap, I let
heaviness take charge.
My hypnotic purr
grows louder. I’m into the
Way. My master sleeps.
He’s a good man and
apologizes when he
gets up to pee. I
say, ‘It’s nothing.’ And
when he comes back and kisses
the air, I’m silent.
Your Perfume (Thierry Mugler)
Having lost you for-
ever I am subject to ran-
don gusts of perfume.
I’ve always been o-
pen to radical others—-
Traherne’s endless sand.
But this is too much.
It was your scent on the wind,
double-edged Angel.
