La vie en rose

Piaf
on the tape deck—
Paris throbs in her throat.
One car behind me, a girl twirls
her hair.

Here in a Dry Place

Infant
seems less solid
than liquid in his limbs—
his spirit moving over deep
waters.

His skin,
once lapped smooth as tumbled beach glass,
now flakes like a clay cup,
deeply scored lines
cracking.

Ring of Fire

Liquid
rock flowing down
the side of the mountain.
The dancer sweeps her hair around
slowly.