Bugs drop from the gowns of pine trees,
fire crackles the music of our dancing
shadows, spirits flow, chatter,
familial exchange is posted;
“This must be heaven!” Shrouding
the cascade of a moth’s spiral, soft pops,
cedar bangs, glacial blue around our eyes,
the fractured memory of this heaven
under a spotted blanket of darkness.
Folgers Classic Recipe
Sits on the bottom shelf
In the bathroom,
A deluxe size container
Filled with everything
Rocks, tampons, a hairbrush,
Rubber bands once shot at Danny
In the kitchen, a ball of clay--
A failed miniature wolf
From pottery class,
Scissors, old things
Long ago duplicated
Like the house
Around the Folgers container,
A wooden memory
Of forgotten pasts.
In dark spaces there is magic.
Cats know nothing of objects
Except for the jealousy
Toward the objects a hand might touch.
And anything can be imagined
In the depths that have no light,
As the cat creates identity
In things that have no life.
Together we speak of meaninglessness,
Purr and whispered verse.
The spell within the dark,
The sound of a meow
In the absence of applause.
About the Author: Ryan Clinesmith is a recent graduate from Emerson College. He was born and raised in New York and is inspired by poets like, Billy Collins, Charles Simic, and Dean Young.