Storm Damage

Irene was on time, with
a reasonable price for a roofer
of meticulous works.

But while the house had no hat
Jane’s head could not recover.

She stared at a jarring
blue hole, a shingle stolen,
tar paper too in hurricane tears

Clouded in blue trauma
she doubted the sky
would not collapse
as life had done before
like under a hammer.

The roofer came too late for taps
the core of critical time elapsed.

For an hour alone, she glimpsed
the sky patch of daylight that

far away he must have seen, a battle
scene viewed skyward
on his back looking at
a gap a missile made

Did he think of her first, or
did he see heaven in smoky blue?

There’s a hole in the sky, and
the roofer came too late.

There is no treaty yet written
that’ll let them recover the body

The roofer came too late to
re-cover the roof.

Dalle Macerie (Italian Version of “Rubble of You”)

Tu signora sei così bella
con strisce di sporco
sulla tua faccia, con
abiti strappati.

Splendido sei tu
con i capelli arruffati
e sangue, in quanto che

ti hanno tirato
dalle macerie

e ti ho sentito sussurrare
ti amo
From the Rubble

You lady are so beautiful
with dirt stripes
on your face, with
torn clothes.

You are beautiful
with tousled hair
and blood, as that

they pulled you
from the rubble

and I heard you whisper
I love you

Од урнатините (Macedonian version of “Rubble of You”)

Вие дама се толку убави
со нечистотии
на твоето лице, со
искината облека.

Вие сте убави
со кована коса
и крв, како што е тоа
затоа што

тие ве повлекоа
од урнатините

и слушнав ти шепот
Те сакам
From the ruins

You lady are so beautiful
with impurity
on your face, with
tattered clothing.

You are beautiful
with wrought hair
and blood, as it is

they have withdrawn you
from the ruins

and I heard you whisper
I love you

On Being Done

I’m pretty much done
though still rare or raw

Too old
too poor
too ugly

not much to grill, and
it doesn’t seem like
I’m cooking at all

there isn’t anyone
who would listen to my
je ne sais quoi

yeah I know
I keep repeating myself —
I only know a few
silly phrases
and I suppose,
make-believe charm, but

really I think maybe
if I were given a magic wand
I’d use it responsibly
to seem human just for you

Please tell me that
what I feel is right:

You are magical
with barbecue sauce, and

I’m not such a bad chef, because
my onions are sautéed with love


I watch beauty drift away on icebergs
see a doomed survivor last a moment

My thoughts are frozen screams
when my dreams of rescue are futile
and I speak with slow motion cream
like flotsam on foamy white waves

Mostly the chill of my face
is too ugly to observe in person

but in the ice cream of my words
many find cherries and berries, and

I am often delicious by the pint, and
when someone has a “brain freeze”
I giggle a little and think to myself:
if only you knew how slowly I would melt
if you thought I was cool in your arms
and was your precious observant dessert
just a little tart, just a little sweet, and
jumping from icebergs onto your ship


Hurrying away from a shiver
she made me feel so cold in insults,
frigid when I rested morose in a sulk

Lying on ice is a chilly bump.

I’m warm when I’m walking
though a storm is stalking, but if
I rest a moment I’ll be cold

Lachrymose skies hover
since she threw me out cold
without my umbrella or razor

A storm is stalking me in her name;
I have no umbrella for shame, no

it’s a shame she never knew me
never knew how poor I was
how rich

I gave her all the grandiose she wanted:
the sunrise, the sunset, the expensive flowers
but she could not embrace a pauper who
might write a frozen poem to be
intentionally defrosted and served
growing lachrymal joy and flowers afield


The texting of you is grand, but
it’s been a long time since
Alexander Graham Bell
spilled acid on himself,
and screamed, “Come here
I need you.”

And I want to go back to
such an urgent voice.

Text does not sing, text when it loves
is a mere ephemeral promise. Someone should say,
“Come here my love, I miss you:
your text gives me no perfume of you,
no voice, no opera, and
I miss your passion, and your playful games…

there is no romp in your text, and
I want to have words and song with you in person.

Step away from the text and
meet me now for wild passionate…
you know…”

When I can’t see you I wonder
who has a soul, has a touch, has a heart, has a name

Come meet me
and touch my cheek.

I will give you
much more than an autograph:

I will sign your heart
with my hand and my love

And I will speak
of love with a gentle touch, and

I hope you will sing with me.


I’ve heard you say
you could never
jump rope again
like an innocent child

because you’ve been
tripped up by
a foot on gossip strings

a betrayal web that
tugs on the rope

friends that double cross
and skip a loyalty to friendship.

Gossip makes the sidewalk slick
and the jump rope a tangle.

I can’t see why anyone would
talk, talk, talk, behind your back
when you have always danced for love
I think

maybe you could teach me to jump rope
where there is a double dance
and a skip above the sea