diamonds lie.
interpreted as
pinched
fallen squares

prim angels
their waxy wings
trimmed sexy
with contradiction

there is commentary
in the evidence
of transformation
or sales

as if I said
“I love you”
and was rewarded
with a bruised lip
or the consolation
of a plainish sister

settling creates differences
that are acceptable,
slippery, fashionable

a rose for the public, a
thorn for your solar plexus
frayed, soiled
margin notes
in an economics textbook

no black keys
or blue notes
to make you question
things like symmetry,
color, or grade

just this outward
spit-shine of
common coal
a few years on.

© Tom Watters  7/12/07

signals woven
for the purpose
of a shirt or pants
that might communicate
in a manner
of non-speaking

tend to tell all
then let people look…
dance judgment
then leave
bewildered and
enriched

salad days
that’s right—for you
weave these tales
in tune with the
keeping
of dogs on leashes

look in
shop windows
with pastoral abandon
imagine new themes
on which to pontificate
true love

you.
that spark
could have started
a god damned fire
instead of the perforation
cauterized

even crows gasp
kind women
look carefully
write cautions on their lips
and love notes
to the hope of the ladder

© Tom Watters  7/10/07

she ran
sometimes on a slant
away as much as to

ward off all
the heads of
the hydra that she
seemed to see

she heard my pulse
of confusion
and took me along
on the cyclone

a little loss goes
for a small price
we pay the admission
by having them
and owning up
and staying up
and living up

to the serious things
we bargained for

and we win with
a silly smile
and a cleansed palate
and the rest that comes

she heard my pulse

© Tom Watters  6/13/07

I  felt you in
That quick sigh
in the steering wheel’s
slight whine
in the desert’s dark
wind envelope

crisp/silently
at 120 mph
I felt the slight
tension in your
frame release
as if you were there

as if you were on me

those lips far
away and still
a mysterious land
terra unconfirma
sending a sirocco of
incongruity
blessed and cursed

travel makes me
thirsty
for that which
is the most
idealized
a postage stamp
with the sweetest
adhesive

the lines on the road
sing to me a sonnet
of pristine desire
a morse code that
still tacks out your
whispered promise

I always will

© Tom Watters  6/8/07