from Stand In Old Light

-

Tenuous grins
slate junctions
when together.
Doorway stances hang:

leaving,
arriving,
half-there,
scent of dyed hair.

You've rearranged.

My creation
slinks, shoulders
my neck,
winks while I try
to shove it in pockets,
wrapped foil tain.

Faltered greetings same ol',
same ol'.

Oil in pores.

-

Cramp in pleasantry,
pleases,
pleas come easy.
Solid fracture in air.

My compete
complete.
It pests between.

You're a sway of wind,
I'm a desert rock.
Lift
across me, see

masks burn
with shadows.

Admire my new shirt.

-

Skin-rings color smooth.

Echoes
hang
on a hook,
sit
circled
on a side table.

No remnants in their light.
Reverberate,

flux my ash-slack
body
drying up
in the corner.
Neither shadows worn.

My skin
stretches like fire.

-

We are a nature collage
decoupaged
on paper, sealed down
slick.

An image of
once
growths,
variety of leaves,
still
for viewing.

Magnet it to
refrigerator,
limited time to
admire.

File it box- storage,
rediscover
plastered arrangement,
admire it
moments less.

Return it to piles.

-

There will be a night with no shadows.

See each other’s constellations,
smell bread almost.

Find a pulse of something nearly there.

Sit, listen
alone.

Creation
vague-numb.

Pile onces in hands,

survey,
pack them tight if this night
comes again.

Enter new doors,
shoulder years,

gently shake,

stand in old light,

fly.

Matthew Porubsky lives in Lawrence, KS, and works for Union Pacific Railroad. He has published several collections of poetry, most recently, Ruled by Pluto (Aldrich Press, 2013) and John (Red Bird Press, 2013).