QUICK BURN

An old brittle farm house seen
vacant for ages, I surmised 1930ish.
Just the thin walls remain like a
fossilized birch tree, bent toward
the pink and pale landscape. But
more-like the colour of red death, or
a Paul Gauguin painting hanging in
the Louvre. And with me, we walked
in (watch your step, he said). The
windows appeared as hollow gray eyes
and near by was a table and an opened
book, pages turning softly caused by
a breeze. We looked at each other
and imagined like a couple of stupid
teenagers that this would make for a
quick burn: the rising bleak smoke,
and Van Gogh's falling yellow sun.
We thought about forgotten and lost
spirits rushing about in the blazing
wind and how things go disappearing.
Though, you know, the past is never
the past: not really.

THE DISTANCE OF GRAVITY

after work everyday
two old women
wearing tennis shoes
would hang outside
the liquor store
waiting for their bus--

these smiling faces
in tennis shoes
were seen diving
hard onto the concrete
the day gun shots
came flying from

inside the store,
making it the high point
of their dull lives--
and like urban birds
they painfully learned
the distance of gravity

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