Amsterdam
Rain is threads of tears—weaving, unweaving,
Lacing panes, stringing leaves, til Amsterdam’s
Shimmering as sassily as whitewash.
The full canals, glimmering, drain off murk.
Night comes in, rain thrums—redundant
Abundance; dwindling leaves bolster the wet.
Scarlet lamps garnish salty, sea-smoked smut—
So we spy out harlots in the worst light.
Later, we’ll return to rooms, to gossip
In chairs, then undertake Love‘s rustic work,
Pressing our own dewy wine, drizzling juice.
The bed’s luminous ground is ours—our bare
Experience, our Joy that gleams, while ooze
Blossoms outdoors, and we’re shameless as Grief.
Pining
Rain’s silvery weight lightens the maples.
Lakeshore, Baltic-side, air is cinnamon;
Spices riot. But shadow-tinged water
Blots a pale rainbow. Near—and far—are you,
Downtown in Helsinki, while I’m exiled
To pines, these pine-spruced-up suburbs, pining—
Like Thérèse Desqueyroux in her French woods—
Wanting glistening light, and missing Love.
Come lightning-thrilled night, sobbing weather,
Rainy encore to damp warmth, and I pour
Draught upon draught of Mannerheim vodka—
As if that pour could bring you to poor me.
My “drinking problem”? It’s a math problem—
And its solution is our addition.
Rosé
Rosé is never a muddy wine. Its
Clarity is as meaningful as prophets,
And, warming a cold spine, it backs the mouth
To back the eyes, so a man speaks his love.
At Storyville, we took several pink drinks;
You sat and swayed; I sipped and nothing said,
Wanting right words to succumb to my tongue,
To elicit compatible smooching.
My tryst was with tristesse: I wanted Love—
A ripe beauty to prove hedonistic
Matron in the clamp and vice of coupling.
But could rhetoric prove posh as rosé?
I had to know. I set aside gleaming
Sweetness. Outside, in rain, our tongues found lips.
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