Three Poems

Kimberly Lyons

The long shadows pricks us at the tip
And I think the word rose hips
And this ancient yellow on the grass
Seems like car light my son says and we are in the dark.
We walk among wild dogs in the meadow
We see a can of tomato sauce and a cellular, lumpy green seed
On a wooden bunch and the juice has run out.
The green leaves are laid tenuously
On the branches
Like elderly teeth.
A man in a unicycle rides past
A little superciliously.
Yesterday, I saw two women holding hands with a man
One, with a glowing orange persimmon in her mouth
Her head thrown back
Hair streaming down
With a face like a white fox.
He wore a skeleton mask
And held the hand of the 2nd woman
Who holds her skeleton mask to her face.
I want to say to you
Come along little darling
As we three dance.
Dear Elizabeth, today is a gnarled and bony as coral
with spores of persimmon and dust
that rush across the face like a storm
of feeling that evaporates minutely
in spectral passages
deleting each sensate particle
as the rainstorm last night took away a sense of condensation
and implacable waiting
substituting waves for density
and tears could well up
suddenly as you spoke, similarly
stamping messages on tags for suitcases
as a poem in that kindergarten print stands alone in the kitchen
something flagrant and awkward about the utensils
and memory of a thought occurs in flushes
such as do gladiolas have a trumpet
and how to keep worms alive in a can.
What’s going on in the others
to transform
it remains
why we want objects my fingers
the object broken
the iridescent, mobile
scratching a flaky substance
essence, bottle, being
it took me a long time to fall asleep
the idea of the human
concern to preserve
dividing my days in a region now evacuated