ROBBING BRETON’S GRAVE
Bushes along the road
to San Romano (now closed)
are decorated with road kill
panties. Black for mourning
black from tire tracks.
Meaningless masks try
to spread news to no one
but everyone knows this pope’s
long dead. There’ll be no smoke
rising from perfumed
chimneys. No epistles
will be burned.
Somewhere, machines plot.
Elsewhere, magic’s touch
folds itself into a map straight
to the end of it all.
WHEN AND WHERE
Here, where now brushes earth quickly
as a kiss on a face you know
you won’t see again. Touched lightly
by a clock’s soft hum. There’s only here
but you won’t get told that secret.
You move your feet as if you’ll go—
Where? Let earth drift her way. Regret
nothing now. There’s always a here.
Now, when here’s left like morning—cold
in August for no reason, you
forget how to count. You grow old
as trees in a lost backyard. Now
you’re time’s filter, messy and sad.
Watch the sun. It can’t keep you new
but warm and warmth’s something to have.
Not for minutes or days. Just now.
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for 50 years. His latest collection is Something To Be. A novel, A Book of Lost Songs, was recently published by Histria Books. He’s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco where he points out pretty things.
He can be found on Bluesky @MJMitchellwriter