Soup

Your mushroom soup made me handsome.
I saw myself in the mirror after I had it;
pulsing enzymatically,
growing vessels inside me together
new mycelium in an old jar of rye.

Afterwards, I broke your hair dryer,
and that was ugly, and I was not very sorry,
so I became broken, and could not make you beautiful.

These days, we get by with our separate meditations,
our schedules which don't overlap,
and for me, the terrible imbalance of income.

But regardless, I could still cook;
there are plenty of things for stock;
raw emotion, hot tempers, sprouted doubt,
pressed stress, brined wounds.

I could boil something
not so good for the soul,
something really wretched to take in.
Thinking this way is a talent,
it's what I went to school for,
It's my dearest way to be.

And yet again, I've much more to learn
under your guidance, to begin with
that no matter what of us I've decocted,
you'd still deign to dine with me.

Montane

Now it is the time of bare trees,
where proud green waves of leaves
once painted the warm wind.
I look with you out the window and wonder
if the landscape of your heart is like this,
if I was once full and green inside you,
an Eden where only trees were clothed
and we brought each other soft and warm things.

And yet, I am still warm beside you,
and the sun will return to his station,
and perhaps only temporarily less.
Birds are still free to fly,
in a Xanadu I could not see
for the now vanquished fullness of verdure
has left a heaven of nests.

Daisies at Dusk

You get tired, or do I?
These days are so busy
my eyes turn to glass;
the friction of years
melted the sand in them
and now they rest, so
I can see only the future
clearly; the present warps.

And also my joints, did you know?
In the long rain
of our journey together
with cracked knees the water
seeped in and made rust.
I was running with roses
to your warm arms at dawn
and now I bring you and barely
daisies at dusk.