I dropped a weck jar what a bang

shrill red pomegranate seeds azure rustle bass tones and dissonants broke out

and out of the glass rolled over the cold tiles under kitchen cabinets tables chairs

these are muddled days I’m always longing for the sweetie-jar archive

screeching cubes of crimson and blue the stripes of silent humbugs held

there behind the countertop unbreaking safe from careless hands

between the curtained windows the morning sun flags its way in

leaning against a table its blue shade long gone

I stare at the bread heating up from my gaze

reminded of last night’s cold dream

morning wakes between days, stuttered reminders shaking dust from this stale time.

either the window or the sky is cracked, birdsong leaking the glass. outside the city is

shedding night from the bark. I am tired of my throat, of signs, of sleep.

we are always waiting for something either for an encounter or parting for warmth or chill for voyages or arrivals

my red cat is hunting the specks of dust dancing in the sun there is a pomegranate seed of blood on my palm

the painfully familiar phone tune is splitting the morning

the red seeds have long since left their traces in my room,

on my skin. if I take off now, life will split into two uneven halves,

before, after. if I take off now, my body splits, between you and me.

between our fingertips, our complex sea. of the coffee we were, to who we are.
on a ledge like always; staring. Into a city, where the lights keep changing.

and you ask, what the hell is happening? I respond with stones, salt and cocktails of my childhood.

after a nightmare, I sowed seeds again under the window where my mom used to pat me.
before the sunlight on the tin roof disappears, let’s call people who had left altogether and invite them to our table; now, it’s time for a toast.

to the sun, symbolically still shining, on dark, adapting days,

stretching rejuvenating rays down damp crevices,

where sown crimson seeds soon sprout…

red blossoms flower as seasons unfold, children inhale

the warm fragrance forgetting there ever was a blood-longing

gibbous moon or a season of cold or want or desire

after this dream, I sink a knife into the flammable cake on the kitchen table

where kin ate, baked from soaked traditions for a promised visit,

the slice now eaten alone, knowing spirits have risen and days continue to spill

now windmills stick out of the snow instead of pomegranate trees

they grind white whispers into green voices

singing of the cold as the surest refuge