Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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Flat light early

Some mornings present
themselves before my second
eye opens, no warmth,
flat light, featureless gray
untrimmed, not even stray
rain clouds.

Tight woven canvas
hangs edge to edge at
the top of the sky, and the
living world makes a new
plan, carrying on

My patient dogs
don’t care a fig
about the sun, arriving
bedside to present mouth-damp
slippers, and we go out
to open up the day.


The Scarf

The eye sees silk, pale
green perhaps, hanging
loose over oiled
bamboo, and waits
for a breath to set
it floating, a sail
slowly calling to
the skin, conjuring
a weightless cover, settling
without fanfare, suddenly
warm when it rests on
breasts, or arms, or flanks,
then sparking shivers as
a hand pulls it
slowly away.