Meditation Suite



I've seen his face at the

café every morning,

empty, flat

as a beggar's plate.

Each morning

he stands at the corner

of this downtown cafe,

looking for a handout:

the rhythm and shake of a

woman's laugh,


someone he once knew.



Hair over her breasts,

a man's knees on a towel

kissing the roundness,


holy ground,


at the back of her neck.


Pouring maple syrup

out of the bottle this morning,

he thought of her hair .



Scarlet has leaked

from the petals,

onto the coffee table

leaving the petals, drooped

with a white turned edge.


In the photograph her features

become pools of water,

as if melting.