before its proud
wristwatch award ceremony,
an inward sigh resigned
today—or was it even
this weak

this burden of mirth
traveled to a different
host city
leaving behind
a bar
and various churches

I opened my palm
for a glimpse at what
was held so dear
below my heartline

my eyes met
the powdery imprint
of a gypsy moth’s wing
samsonite beige
and
fashionless

felt wind
in the holes left behind
dull and hollow
a television test pattern
the volume
fluctuating slightly
to no earthly rhythm

newsprint yellowed
a crust forms
on my lower lashes
sentimental value
becomes an oxymoron
keepsakes become
the music of clutter

I hear
gunshot taiko drums
in the dead reverberation
of new falling snow
cold dry
cracking

statues topple
off the edges of
gilt-lily pedestals
and bears see
that they are not
gazelles
nor cheetahs

they are bears

© Tom Watters  3/16/07

Eastward bound
by the words
I spoke
contracts that cheat their
convenient guilt

free from any
idea
or plan
that simple devotion
need be redeemed

my orchid bloomed
this morning of my departure
its inviting folds
thick and
ripe and vain

care and feeding
rewarded
to yet another’s eyes
radiant and oblivious
and temporary

the slap of Philadelphia
cold, and the thought
of hothouse flowers
and currency spent

bound Eastward

© Tom Watters  3/4/07

glass breaks once
on the season of
giving
and caring about

the man in red
has been on binge
prying out tent stakes
deftly from the inside

dark work
in as much as darkness
enlightens
like a dull mallet

she comes hard
red mentions
HIS name
ever the jovial giver

he listens in the dark to the
benevolence of the new
he understands
and gifts her his tears

the man has been living
wherever your mom told
you he did when you were
young—for real

at times
he visits his insides
a hall of ugly mirrors
pointing to his obvious desire

born with it
feel the weight of these chains
a weight HE can not give
hard as he might try

the sticky gift
he sees every morning
and again at dark
a badge he can not purge

© Tom Watters  3/2/07

snake’s hiss
as the salted rain
attempts smothering
flame
the last flame
in this small empty room

the dilemma of faith

we are born with
all

the rain collects
against warped floorboards
is it a fathom?
perhaps fathomless
the lamp floats as if
it were a lotus blossom

life is the great remembering
all

singing that song
the flame outgrows
the room
I feel my own ginger touch
on my brow on my
shoulders and
to my most familiar core

this rain provides
all

© Tom Watters  2/21/07