Wildling

Comfortable in the cold,
mist tendrils rising
across morning garden,
dew-dampened boots
dry in the rising wind.
Cracking this year’s journal,
I release pleasure to the river.
Behind a dome of December clouds,
the sun struggles.

Ready for Anything

As if backyard tennessee reaches the edge of the pacific chipping granite til it bleeds sweet tea crickets refusing to be reined or digitized too hot for mason jars or any lids

This Wasn’t Supposed to Be About You

You see power lines and I see twilight But you follow me everywhere, even when I sail across seas, live in other countries, speak foreign languages. Especially when I speak foreign languages. They remind me of your many tongues, fingers in my mouth, body like a map revealing unknowns that make me all at once prepared and still afraid.

Upgrade

Hand held eyes head unencumbered telepathic, no need for speech hovering instead of walking how many babies? How many pets? photosynthetic? Photovoltaic?

Enterprise

Heavy blooms expose their fleshy bodies in such enterprise among the dunes—as mine to yours. Such immeasurable delight: the pale lips of the iris curling to the listless sky.

The Theory of Electromagnetism

You see power lines and I see twilight clinging to itself. You see a cardinal and call it a representative and I say visitant and eventually we agree on angel.

Annie Dillard’s Weasel

Annie Dillard’s Weasel contemplates the umwelt of John Lennon. Having seized its last muskrat the weasel rides to heaven on a trail of half-eaten flesh and bones. Once arrived, its esteem for wildness fades and its true nature is revealed.

Along the Seine

Not doing much but composing a poem in my head—which might be somethingif the poem is consummated,turning out to be good. Sunlight steps easy on the waterall the way to Quay Bercyand a new first line—that’s better.Lush, green leaves on the trees, a cat chases plump birds,a couple on the roof of a houseboatkiss and […]

House Dust

House Dust is skin cells shrouding the broom that once gathered them, draping it now in gray; his blind calico’s brown eyelashes; pearl fibers sloughed off thread she strung through buttons two nights before they buried him in his white church shirt; pollen the daisies he gave her exhale from their kitchen jars. They form […]

Wrapped Tight

Wrapped Tight Ball of string wrapped tight and tidy yearns to fling itself in a direction to unravel massiveness into feathery strand beckoning in wind for more length to discover more paths no worries of finding way back or to dangle like trapeze swinging back and forth inviting acrobats to fly unlike ball of string […]

Visitant

Literary pilgrims welcome

poem