As long as he keeps writing them, I will keep posting them. Especially I am not writing too much poetry these days. Here are two more from Ari:
I don't know the name.
But the tree blooms purple in April.
In May, petals pool at its feet.
A carpet of curling flowers.
It has become two trees.
Color burning at each end.
Each side reflecting the other.
There is so much still to be decided.
The drama of getting through the day.
The theater of ordinary life.
I have done nothing this morning but
sit in my yard and drink warm water and head back to the kitchen
to cut lemon for my next glass.
And yet it all feels so important, dire.
to perform some other duty
would be treason, a betrayal of some sort.
A knife carving through sour flesh.
A yellow oval torn open.
It all feels urgent, unavoidable.
And it might be.
And it might even have a name.
But I don't know the name.
So I sit, work, grope, sleep, die, throb, grind, reach, glint.
All without a name.
"water spills slowly"
The train tracks rise along the river.
The water spills slowly, thinned, groping forward on instinct.
The train tracks and the river.
Two shapes. Each escorting the other.
A boy moves down the tracks.
His brown back naked in the afternoon.
A white shirt jammed into jeans,
lolling in the heat.
He twirls something.
A long chain.
It wraps around his finger.
Perfect circles tightening with each turn.