Michael Morical


The rose heads in the bowl
have turned to glass balls
behind my back.
I must imagine the petals,
the room to unfold
and still be supple,
a place to fall
without breaking.

Haiku (Couples Only)

lunging out
of each other’s way
we fall on the ice

happy hour
skips our street

barbie’s back
where did you park
my bulldozer?

through a curtain
between massage tables
you kick my foot

Your First Subway Ride

Grit sparkles, flashing
golden down the steps
that tripped me this morning,
the shin-splitting steps
into my daily hole.
Now the work day
is done and music rains
from steel drums,
the booth attendant
projects indifference through
her moist cosmetic mask,
and mosaics on platform walls
reflect the soft fire
in your eyes,
every ceramic tile
shimmering open wide.