KRIS FALCON

Keep It Lite

Vows loungers in line coolly for light over large
when it comes to living it, stretchmark-free on a sun- 
drenched swan among flamingoes, sans cavity as yea 
to walnut Romaine, honey balsamic,
skipping the whole way to swing on a ballroom
of a dive like a dove gowned in white
lilies, a wink to grace as more of a gift.
No harm in tonight having the same warm cheek 
tomorrow. Perspires crystal
as the nap of a conscience relieved.
There must be a sensual saying in Catalan
that eases into off-center but on point down
to a vine up an orangery, a wakeboard on a reservoir. 
How to say how good must I be to be gone.
On screen a modulated voice with no crow’s feet 
warns on vene varicose.
No better time to make love-nest
love that makes me dance like impressions
the next twilight. To flick romance epics to a squint 
...waif and wayfarer no more...
A time to sign up with wifey lovelies in cotton 
off-shoulder, bare feet wading
in clouds as slowly as an exhale it’s enough to embrace 
a rescue litter, fan fiction. Tell my reflection
rather than another’s well, fare.
Walls are as unsightly as callus. As cage.
Where is that moon-kissed reader now
who claimed these two moles on my face
foreshadow a trail of tears. My Venus &
Mars, invisible in overexposure.
How to say we belong where we long to be—
so many clocks, half meter running.
Are you here or happy?
Molto doloroso moans an elderly lost to her
husband ‘til the next train. Sorry no pocket
for a feather. A-daze. How to say aways to go.
More waylaid rush to carousels while
I fly luggageless. Toward after Latin sun
I keep my palms loose for knob after knob
but the glass slides open.
I’ll take any sign to make no other self at home.