poem: those people are like art, dead but beautiful

little girl, in the red skirt, in the impressionist painting outside my window: the sky is thick with cocoa beans, the clouds are wild.   her mother picks at the flower-dust in her hair. they have halos, they are goddesses spun out in starry nights, relics from when the world was young and girls waited…

poem: delusional man

I am not so good at this, she says: the creaking of her hands being wheeled behind her head, and the gears pulling a smile taunt over her too-life-like face, the blue eyes put flat above wavy almond hair, the color of it perfect inspiration, a lucky miracle that comes from the painter staring outside…