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Michael Pacholski

Fringe

There was something no poet could name for sure
no Shakespeare -
no nobody -
about watching the girl with the tiny hearts
glittered beneath her eyes
and the passionate curl of breath
passing from her lips straight into winter
while standing frozen
as she walked up and asked
if I was cold
if I was okay
if I was frozen
if I was perhaps
some sort of snowman
as she giggled and draped
a red fringe scarf around me
me - just barely a boy
a boy in a new red fringe scarf
a new body of red fringe
lips of red fringe

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Maps, Travels, Contours

The heart simply does
and “does” is the best word
for what cannot be explained or plotted
in a story or a graph
cannot be predicted and is perhaps ill-advised
like when a lover walks back
into their lovers room
after toiling long at sea
in a fog
in a storm
on a highway it had no business walking
and flops on the sweaty unwashed sheets
of the double bed in the three-room loft
while the other heart
the heart that has remained
to keep the room ready for this return
picks up all this new-old laundry
and continues sewing and stitching
as it has done and always done
and when finished

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