MICHAEL PAUL LADANYI

Folded Paper and Teal Water

What is it you dream of when your 
poor eyes are on thin gray trees, 
those that sail the palms of 
diapason November nights
 
as small but infinite deaths 
descending the flat edge of the world? 
Have they ever choked upon skull and 
bone shadows feigning regress? 
 
I have been told that there is a dance 
long and sweet, hollow with blues 
and greens, folded paper 
vibrations that forever weep with 
 
smiles and laughing hazel eyes. 
Do you know of it? There are dead 
auburn leaves rotting on frosted 
ground above the root cellar, 
 
above dusty jars of pickles and pears 
resting on musty shelves, sharing space 
with small brown spiders and comic 
books from the seventies. 
 
What is it you will say to me when 
we meet again? Will your words 
be filled with tired blood and 
dangling mistakes? 
 
The old brass chimes still hang from the 
back porch, they are voices under 
teal water, their eyeing sound passing 
by me as imperfect tones of you.

copyright MICHAEL PAUL LADANYI