3 Form Poems

“The Moment Before Waking”
I caught my eyes in the gold-flecked mirror
And paused to trace the diameters.
What should have appeared nearer
Developed its own parameters.

I paused to trace the diameters,
And discovered the golden flakes
Developed their own parameters
And coalesced opaque.

Upon discovery, the golden flakes
Formed a cloud inside my iris
And coalesced opaque,
A golden plague or virus.

A cloud formed inside my iris
And obstructed the view of the sun.
A golden plague or virus
Traipsing like a legion.

Clouds obstructed my view of the sun
So night seemed to stretch beyond
Traipsing across the horizon like a legion
And elicited in me a muted response.

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“Ghazal of Swamp”

You are a field of juniper trees, and your fruit serves as spice.
Bear the meat of your branches to sustain my flesh.

There is an idea that I'm the thicket and the mire.
I am a fen, obstructing the progress of civility.

You have your saving graces, like being late for work.
The windows and doors that break up your walls have purged you.

Talking to you when I'm dour is like tiptoeing amidst 88 keys.
I speak to you in scales and you reply in minor chords.

Diametrically I fear the morning may bring slight frost.
You are still; persistent with the coyly threatening.

And though one of us may be artificial, I was trying to be vague.
But sometimes I get so involved in the actual literal meaning in things.

When you enter, it’s as a fog would, a cloud come crashing down.
And I, vukcic, have failed to avoid the damage in your wake.

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“Fission”

I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.

And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.

The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.

A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.

I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.

I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.