The Tall Teller

Forgive the autumn traveler

as he catches glimpses

Recalls himself in a song

or a beam of warm sun

and sometimes after

the first seven or eight sips

thinks yes

This is it again

He remembers the fruitiness

of vintage summers

honeyed air

that he’s not sure

really happened

or the salty kisses

of ocean flings

that didn’t for sure

It doesn’t matter

Memories are as

real as lies

So forgive this autumn traveler

as I sit and stir wine

for stories

and fish love through

rays of light

It's Wired

I love my owl:

a substandard

piece of African art

from a blanket

on a Jozi pavement,

where it was by far
the cheapest

and least ambitious offering.

My owl, I sense

would stumble and fall

with its next step.

Don’t think it's sober;

it’s never truly been new.

I love my owl.