Sunday, December 14, 2014


Our fingers lace,
as if they were always knit;
you guide me into the street,

where centuries of secrets rise
between paving stones,
from under darkroom doors.

Like our first embrace,
my new jacket goes unnoticed 
in monochrome. 

Stolen glance ― snap! 
Your eyes flash Kodak,
encompassing everything north. 

Nothing important is exchanged; 
a few riddles, exhaled laughs, 
camera-shy smiles. 

Under a suspended crescent,
you surprise ― all quick-turn and lips ―
like the Doisneau.

tk/December 2014

Evocative monochrome read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

Sunday, December 7, 2014


Sleep is innocent.
It runs, hides in the dark,

is easily frightened by radiators,
the drop of a digital clock.

I have access no longer
to the lull of manifold sheep.

Time zones are corrupted
with a single cunning sock.

Night spins uncountable hours
in a game of blindfold;

I hear your voice in my head,
misidentify your face on purpose,

wanting always to be it.

tk/December 2014

Deliciously soporific R.A.D. Stainforth...

Sunday, November 30, 2014


From a distance,
the pattern looks right.

Buckles go unnoticed;
rough edges smoothed over
with a Libra trowel.

Hate puzzles.

I take it apart, spread it,
shameless, for a good hard look;
see all sorts of things.

Slowly it comes together;
gaps stare expectant
in the scene like clouds.

Then you. 

End pieces tumble easy, snap,
fully interlock promises
and now.

tk/November 2014

Ronaldo Stainforth steps out of his black and white world... 

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Scioto Snow

Prints cross ice;
imagine a doe
coaxed to the river,
enveloped in lust
and white.

Gloved fingers,
breath exhaled
like anxious chimneys;
all of me
in your pocket.

We thrust low,
confound the cold,
unable to see beyond
the crosshatch of blue ash
and sycamore.

Wonder how
this flux can survive;
fresh unbodied rush,
metallic, more feverish
than spring.

tk/November 2014

Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth...