Allan Douglass Coleman

Electra Poem 3: Sand Symphony

manipulate the lake
            heave out the mist
tell your lust club
            Monday morning's storm
has left a frantic shadow
            under my car

Surface Tension

no plan to
die. Yet time
eludes me, glides
away as I, preoccupied,
take care of things. Is that
how it slips up on you, so casual,
inscribed by some mere clerk upon
our daily calendar amidst the shopping
and the toilet scrub? Or does it simply
blossom from within, inhere, death
latent, blooming, the red blush on
a green tomato plucked too
early off the vine, set to
ripen on your sunporch
windowsill? And, if so,
does it take you by
surprise, or can
you feel it like
an undertow
that slowly
sucks you in
no matter how
you fight its tug,
no lifeguard there,
no rescue possible,
a knowledge
that it's over
dawning slowly
as the air