The Usual Rhythms

As we slide across Thursday’s chilly exterior

Our temples burrow under Peacoat bundles.

Bohemian sunsets told in true colors

Fold under the cloak

Of a jet-black tortoise shell.

Underneath, flesh-colored waves lap

In tempo like a kissing dog upon your arrival.

This, your interior, begs to inhale a November gust.

But it is fearsome. To cope, you wax

and wane, bob and weave, strategically

You breathe in

The Usual Rhythms.

The common time keeps

your shell defined.

Sliding baubles, we are sweet spheres

Of momentary exchange.

The stranger’s rhythm with a coda

Lingering, warped,

Threatens to liquidate layers.


Polyrhythmic guilt,

You faded the ink of the heart on my sleeve.

You shaped my shell without my blessing.

Robbed me of brevity.


I will lacquer my lips with velvet and stone

To seek your disfiguring pull, and atone.


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