‘soundless’, in the 5th issue of Apeiron.





It left you.

Days go by in different dreams now,

That promise long lost, replaced,

Lost again and replaced and lost and replaced

And each time the feeling getting smaller as it moved away,

Blown along with time like a cluster of white seeds

Drifting quietly, so quietly,

Over a gravel path.

You followed it awhile but there

In the tall, dry grass ahead

It disappeared.

You let go.


Still, the warm blue of an August night

Holds all the world, still,

Enough to bring it into remembrance – we all know that.

We all felt that, the sweet remembering,

The every-breath-an-ache that replaced you

With tears in which you were not alone,

In which you belonged.

But it left you some time ago,

Maybe yesterday, maybe 2 years ago or 10 or oh,

You don’t really know when.
Still, in the silence before a summer storm

You search, still, for the ache,

Search for distant promises

Like a shadow reaching for the dark.







I meet you there on a summer’s eve,

the café a real place, not an unwrapped, sky-bound castle,

desserts on display, coins in the register, ceiling-fan breeze,

ties and dresses and shorts and eager faces,

air moist and salt-filled, thick, anise, baked sugar –

my alertness contained,

calmly spooning coffee-ed ice,

contemplating the small crystals melting,

melding on my tongue,

melding their bitter chocolate-liquorish with the soft-smooth cream

like memories of moments sweet, waiting.


The glass on the table is transparent.


The small silver spoon resting beside is opaque.


The table beneath them is square though I might prefer it round and ornate-ed,

a touch decadent – you know how it is,

the unending curve of the glasses’ body and lip filled to the brim,

coffee-dark below, lush white above,

their encountering line contemplative,

each expanding gingerly, preciously into the other.

La granita: grah-knee-tah.

Rhythms outside moving in, familiar, voices and such,

words, laughter, high-pitched-low-pitched a girl, her friend, her mother, a kid, a guy, the tangling ring and footsteps from behind the bar,

every voice, everyone, every thing in the café alert, it seems, contained, awaiting the iced melting.


You enter, hidden from view.

A slow hush, a shadow disappears,

I hear you through the stillness moving,

taste you in one paused breath,

cool and creamy and calm.

You see me, step across the pause,

open a window in my chest just that way

as if I were a transparent glass on your table,

spoon silver, table square,

violate the stretched line and look inside where I’m filled to the brim,

push down gently and twirl and groove and lift it back through your lips,

place it gently, contemplate, smile.

I melt into ice.


link –  Granita (…but more than whisking every 30 minutes… look at the ice forming. You want delicate crystals but not a slushy, so it all depends on the granita itself, whatever flavor. As a general rule though…whisk every 20 minutes at most.