photo by Herve Claudet
Christmas, Circa 1948
A dog barks across the street.
The cold whistles through bare trees.
I look out my little bedroom window
as the sun slowly rises
and the shock of white snow
almost hurts my eyes.
The little space heater
beside my bed
flickers like a candelabra
and sings a tune.
Christmas, Old Town, Chicago, 1968
Everyone wears fatigues,
passes joints,
makes them glow
bright, red.
His hair's long as a shepherd's.
He watches stars,
forgets to wish:
whiff of incense.
*
smiling in her sleep—
at the window
new moon
*
summer lightning--
she touches her face
*
The Cat
“Death,” said the cat,
“I forgot about that.”
*
Hot and Cold
The way it blows
between us,
our fingers raised
to brisk autumn wind:
one day raw/next day warm.
We're jerked around:
north to south/back to back;
forward, backward,
face to face.
Phil Miller
bravenet.com