Night Migration

•November 10, 2015 • Comments Off on Night Migration

There is a black shape, a dark drifting thing that haunts my vision. Not amorphous but solid. Though I know it is a thing of rods and cones, an anomaly of the eye, it has as much substance as the holly tree pressed against the kitchen window. It will not come when I call it but shies always to the side. This morning I folded down to slip on a shoe and found a small pin feather stuck to my ankle. Another hooked and clung to the smallest finger on my left hand. What have I eaten in my sleep: was it sweet and tender or did it need gnaw and render by my canines? It may be a remnant of night migration, the body making manifest a path dreamt between the lower atmosphere and God. But I think the shadow has something to do with it. Why else the furtiveness?


•August 30, 2014 • Comments Off on Quail

She eludes you, coquetting behind a gauze of rabbit brush just
summer greening, summons the eye to her plum bosom, the one
wing breaking from her shoulder. Geisha-like she trails
a drape of feather in the dust,

Monday again

•May 13, 2013 • Comments Off on Monday again

One plane grumbles from horizon to horizon. The lilac, almost stripped by the weather, shudders as the rain strikes its remaining rags of purple. I can hear the kitchen clock stepping delicately around a circle. Some days are like this. Suspended between water and grief and recollection.

Where I’m From

•February 22, 2013 • Comments Off on Where I’m From

I am from the pelvic saddle, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner
landlocked. From the ceremony of silly walks and shoes
that pinch. The Reagan years and Loose Gravel signs.

When I wander I carry an ocular device to tune up
the horizon with Gambel Oak and Cricket Mice. It’s
Exit 13 that I want with the Wagon Wheel Diner.

You’ll join me I suppose with your origami mapping
of clouds the equivalent of Georgia and bone
and the oracular tosses of tiles and of stone.

We’ll see where we land. Solemn as goats.
In our grey woolen coats and fingerless gloves.
A coupling of digits. Turn the key and let’s rove.

When thinking of moss

•November 12, 2012 • Comments Off on When thinking of moss

We arrive, I depart, moss departs. Together / we arrive again, again.

I throw back my head, throw down this shovel, / singing out of a wild mouth.

The next generation of moss, a hymn of bronze / and ice; Otzi the ice man singing on the roof of the world.


•November 11, 2012 • Comments Off on

like throwing yourself into leaves

the pile-up of the death of the trees

•April 24, 2012 • Comments Off on

Some come at it head-on, some obliquely.


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