Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Arcing and impossibly soft

 photo Mercy-Thursday2.jpg

Mercy Thursday

Expecting anyone, I ask motioning toward
the empty chair. No, just waiting for my
coffee. So I sit down, my head filled with
the sweetness of a morning when you’re
standing in line before light-flooded windows
and you realize through the grinding beans
and espresso presses that Sisters Of Mercy is
playing, Cohen so young and lilt-voiced, rowing
at the oars of an old heart, like mine, for instance,
and the ceiling opens up and honey swarms the
senses like sleeping with a girl for the first time,
the smell of her, the architecture so arcing and
impossibly soft, the stand-up bass of her bones
anchoring you into the quay of a soul you never
knew lived inside you, dark canals where Suzanne
once passed with her Chinese oranges snaking
through opium den dreams you forgot you ever
had, but like windowlight awash on a headboard
she tells you she’s an accountant and that this is
the taxing season of darkest coffee as she makes
for the door and you stop to consider how many
addresses you’ve read by the moon, wonder what
happened to the breathless glaze on your fingertips
once left by dew tiding along the wet littoral of
ebb-brushed hems, and the whole scene steps you
out of time to leave you thrown up on some lost
shore rich with featureless scarcity where all heroes
are left to die dearly in their own discarded legends.

Joseph Gallo
April 10, 2014

 photo Mercy-Thursday1.jpg

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