Pomegranate

I pry out the seeds with my fingers and allmy memories spill onto the frosty marblecounter. Little, lit up like ruby-red carnival lights,rough as the cat tongue of Timeinviting us to sit at the table to gobble us upin a mouthful. The pomegranate returnslate autumn, ready to ruin us, on whichever nightwe are in the kitchen, distracted by dinner: very lightlyit stains our fingers that pensive, murky color,the color hours take on that won’tclot—the open color of memory. 

The Sky Over Berlin

Don’t ask me how or why. Now and thenpigeons go astray, they go througha window, a curtain, a mirror left halfopen, and nothing can prevent their scatteringthrough the transparent sky of the soul, the waywatercolors disperse under the serendipity of waterdrops. Don’t ask me how or whythese mistakes happen, or if they even aremistakes. How could I know whose handopens mirrors, whose hand precipitateswater? Sometimes, life chooses the wrongpiece, white moves for black, and thenan eagle appears under a coat, a wordon a bee’s lips, a sad angelsitting in a laundromat. They sayit happens to everyone, not onlythose with wings. Comforting to know.Comforting to know error is a partof us, sustains us like air or blood,that the best encounters are reallylosses or confusions, accidents happeningthree thousand feet above sea level over forgottencities, there where words ascendlike effervescent globules, and disappear.