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A Tide
move with lunar magnetism:
pushed away
and pulled back again
on your swells.
The suction of your undertow draws
me out deeper,
above my head,
and then leaves me
alone, to drift
a dead-man's-float
in the still
waters of your heart.
ripples echo
all celestial abandon gone.
Glass
In the glass houses can you see through the clouds to your dreams?
can you reach out and catch their whisps
between your thumb and pointer
before the smoke particles dissolve into everything-- this vast world?
Do the inhabitants, like confused birds, crash into the walls?
Do they stumble over each others' problems, promises
broken, with no one listening and everything tangled--soon twisted.
Here we cannot even dream anymore
with all of our internal communication collisions
bouncing off of the few uncovered windows and mirrors
revisiting us over and again.
Melissa Spinelli works in scholarly publishing and is getting back to her roots: writing poetry. (September 09)