Two poems

The Desert - Jennifer Whiting

In paintings, the little dog
by the lady's feet is full of meaning
someone forgot to let her out before the sitting
and the artist charges by the hour.

In my own hallway, a deadly triptych
hangs on my thirst by a wooden nail:
a jackal, ostrich, a ball of wax.

I've lost my honor.
It has fallen through the hole in my pocket
like a dirty penny. I never missed it.

This daily work, it's tiring.
Coming to steadfastness, slowly.


Kind of Blue - Angie Estes

Because most starts were born mor than six billion years ago, the average color of the universe has changed since that bluer period when there were more young stars.
—The Cosmic Spectrum and the Color of the Universe

So the universe is not blue
after all, not even green

but beige because the stars are
older than we thought. But is it

sad, even sadder than
we knew? Describe the sound

of doves — is it coo, coo
coo or who who who? The French

would say it's rue rue rue
and in Italy it would be summer,

morning, already brocade,
Cecilia Bartoli gargling. And the throats

of doves, are they beautiful
or true in their blue and pink

embroidery? Young stars burn
hot and blue but those near death

are red. Did your father believe
in God? and the deer leaped

so high above the road I believed
it had been hit by a car. Dear falling

note, intention, dear
no more, dear rain,

give it up. What remains and need
not be mentioned we'll call

what have you, musica ficta: not
what's written down but what's

been played. What if
you paused for a minuet

instead of a minute? The dark
might sky, the blue might

star, the always
could open, the close

might earth. The doves
are just around

the corner, like a train
before it turns into

view. Miles Davis was
right: there will be fewer

chords but infinite possibilities
as to what to do with them. The doves

are coming, true,
true true.