It’s afraid, It’s afraid

Oh my

love

this body

is dying

watch it

vanish

these lips,

those legs,

It’s afraid
It’s afraid

for you see

the dying

youth who

yearned for

your touch

It’s afraid
It’s afraid

because he

needs

your touch

now.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017  All Rights Reserved

Nor a Bird More Pure

I soar above the red rooftops
of the City

above the steeples
of the
Mission Dolores Church

below the dusty ledges
of the
Transamerica Pyramid

there was never a sky more
blue

nor a bird more pure.

Image and text  (c) Rob Goldstein 2017

…of wisteria and the scent of honeysuckle

Her  death leaves
us with

hidden memories

of captured fireflies,

of wisteria and

the scent of

honeysuckle,

of taffy pulls
and
pink flamingos,

of Christmas and

the Wizard of Oz,

of swallowed

shame

and conflicting

secrets.

Image and text Rob Goldstein (c) 2017