Polka Dotted Umbrella

A life littered, no
clean slates on the mall
for her to slide through. That hole
in your drapes no longer

fools anyone—not even her. She’s more
interested in blinds
that camouflage what sticks
to the pane.

Night Poem

Upside down hurricane
lamps hang
from a ceiling’s exposed

bones in a place
called SPACE. Drapes
for walls, everyone can see

what the cooks are doing
with the night.
There’s nowhere

in this space
to hide. And yet
the singer won’t appear

till it’s time.