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i've been taking blurry photographs recently & feeling unfocused in general.  i keep rubbing my eyes, but it hasn't helped.  and, now - snow days, which knock me right out of my routine and quite make my head spin, adding to my overall fuzziness of being.  so i decided to thumb through, what else?, old (very old) poetry (mine).  back from when things were clear as mud.  indulge me (& a few retrospective tweaks).

painting

after an age

passes in my mind -

anger molten - only then

will i challenge

your nebulous conclusions

and tempt eternal

damnation.

even in pomegranate skies

is there

risk of agreement.

i actually have no clue what provoked this poem (though, like you, i can make some guesses), but i love that i used the word pomegranate twenty-five years ago.

birthing
 

against this membrane

i work the walls with sodden hands

stretching thin my sweet sack.

then lids blink blue and shocked

as i fall

out but in to merge
in simple reunion with life.

again, not sure of my motivation...but i remember looking back on this poem quite a while after (literally) birthing & feeling some amazement at the physical accuracy i conveyed at age twenty.

after

there is an air

in my mouth these days

that i've not tasted before.

a texture of violets

against my tongue,

barely perceptible

roughness beneath the velvet.

and i shall throw open

the window of my room

to drench my lips

in this wind.

ah, amor.  i have many poems that speak of this.  most of which will remain hidden.  really, they would make you blush.