In blossom, a bookworm

a wanderer's haven
a tavern for drunks
a hole for lovers
a hide out for sinners
for the pretender's gaze
where Rilke has left
and Whitman will never
where steam rises
off the ink blots
that dance across the page
to stun
you
with age old grace

Peonies

so the petal-less flowers lost their sight
and their way is fraught
they bark and bite
on their long descent
through a poem that never ends
but on that long way down low
will it matter
that their kites lost their way
or that they had too much to say

maybe a little too much

even so.

last night i laid peonies
on our grave.