Pandora’s Moon

Let’s forget the echoes of my thirtieth year for there’s refuge in the night and the moon. Moonlit night where imagination stretches starward. Moonlit night where my name falls off like an autumn leaf. Moonlit night where I’m a sapling attune to winter wind. Moonlit night where my past hibernates, ant-sized.

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Left of Gandhi

Sittin’ to the left of Gandhi Peaceful intentions and all Honolulu Zoo behind me Girls playing volleyball Beautiful ocean Yet, the world burns in more ways than one My wife in the water, with beautiful fish I love it here Yet, the world burns The cardinal I just fed bread is thankful

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Day Job

After a night of therapeutic bottle and blunt passing He wakes on earth at 5AM In a lumpy bed He goes to the airport in his overalls Brandishing a handkerchief He scrubs the thick plastic windows With long handles bruises He watches the jets take off They move hot through the endless sky With purpose

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Mother

this humo ludens collaborans has many plans renewing vows supporting plants saving bees down on my knees with every breath we take in oxygen gifts from forests, meadows, mosses & ferns

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The Red Gate

Can you see us through the gate? the Tutelo ask. I sprayed it apple red last winter, aerosol in my lungs. Must be more careful in the time of masks. But the red. The red! You can see it a quarter mile away, walking up the lane. Crooked door opening to a wide mossy bed of poplar and walnut. Shadows bend into each other. Locust limbs rest on the lazy fence. An old wooden coop, emptied years back by the fox, sits where the home place was.

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Without, Within

Tiny round-faced vaquita porpoises, dark-eyed mountain gorillas, intricately striped Sumatran tigers, so many species disappearing under greed’s heavy boots although the loss seems abstract as we stop at Costco for groceries, fill up the car before heading home.

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Last Chance Road

A light rain washes clean the leaves, the green melody of freedom from the city’s nightmares. Time rolls past, fast or slow, no one knows, like the mists that rise up and settle down upon the Smoky Mountains. Days lose their distinctions, their names. Dust, thick and heavy in the sun, embraces the rain like new love refusing to let go and calms the road down, clearing the air, the sky, the pathway love must travel to embrace a new rain.

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Flight

Now all I hear is my own hum so turn again to the window where a broken line of parked cars dots the whitening sidewalk, as the sun englobes the street in crisp detail and vivifies the skeletal oaks that scratch against the sky, implying the chimes of birds about to arrive. I lean against my window, note the dust motes pillowed on the glass like a moleculed yawn, so grab a rag and spot, on the ledge, two piebald pigeons strutting and pulsing back and forth as they peck along the sill in sync.

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