• Garden Chorus

    Daily, when my wife waters our drying flora Morning and evening during summer months, Her mood blooms atop weeklong seed grass, Our sun-baked garden speaks to her, more a Maiden chorus greeting their sister at once, Seeds fallen in turns, gathered and nurtured Since wind shapes reeds into narrow rows, A random symmetry, pleasing to the naked Eye, relaxed yet measurable, raw untutored Gratitude absorbed into hollowed veins so as To fall like leaves every year blown and raked Again and repeated so many times a pattern Immerges with careful strokes, a hurried brush Against earthen tones, the lively palette turns Into a steering wheel like the rings of Saturn…

  • Springs

    Just parked in the driveway as usual On inertia now, noticing springs uncoiling Like night crawlers in our rain of waited Out lawn-watering curfews, casual Conversations on everything from petroleum Products to fabricated spreadsheets shredded Into pleasant rats nests for the time being, If you don’t mind, until the pressure of scrotum Returns to our mutual days of balancing The yearn with planting seed in years of drought. Not that anyone thinks it would matter Even if they knew what you were doing In your head, going through grids like mail slots Behind the desk at a hotel lobby. Just checking things out, sorting through Bundles of joy before they…

  • Shuttle Debris

    Such a beast as these jagged shards stacked amid flighty Scientific questions, sponge bathed lifeless limbs, stretcher, Armed military parade, wide load National Guard solemn Caravan toward hanger of reassembly, gathered in mighty Clipboard clutched white lab coat face-masked lecturer Cantering the melancholy catalog into microphone column, Filling our grid of numbers like garden rows in entropy, A handsome multi-layer sieve tucked away in particles And pieces, having gone the way of our dust, from cosmos To cosmos, whatever that means, rearticulate model in 3-D Except for all the bits hoarded away in newspaper articles, Old ladies’ pastures and wooded acreage where we almost Gave up looking for cow pie…

  • Down Hill

    On the hillside our mothers stood in a chorus line, toes Pointed nakedly through sandals. Confused border collies Taking orders from instinct alone, fulfillment frowned Upon in one’s merely doing what feels what one knows (Quite correctly, by the way) is the right thing to do. All Through one’s life, feeling the tug of generations: fathers, Sons following steps so many years up that same slippery, Humming similar melodies with slight variations to fall Freshly on the next, each man changing lines as druthers Dictate. So, yet again we come to doing simply on the feel Because the feel is all we have, the carefully measured calls Toward a cavern…

  • Incapable Tongue

    Java tides erode smiles, warming tongues that gracefully move From subject to object, rich bitter concentrated dark language, The kind that burns as it comes and goes, in and out your throat. That acid, some sort of tannin, citrus hinted, a day off vinegar If somebody doesn’t check the temperature before the damage Sets in. The edge of stone tumbles through your nostrils, you note The involuntary exhale as part of the story, the marvelous command This half-ounce wields over you during, fulfilling, the moment For which it was created, when taster and tasted merge. Active Consumes passive. Passive overwhelms active in the pleasure, No, not the pleasure, the complexity,…

  • Windy Road

    In the tall green; way beyond what needed mowing, The sun could have blown the lightning of your hair Again, a presence like a sheet snapping in the wind Flung across my face as though a crooked blowing Motion was all it took to bring us without our wits To this condition of quiet restraint, a delicate find In these days of gusting discussions on the airwaves And cables underground, under tables and chairs Matching couches with overstuffed cushions frayed Like leather faces buried in armpits and hairy caves Ashamed of being seen in such poses, humid lairs From dragons breath and all night pacifying rants, A collage of threadbare…

  • Bottled

    That bottle gathering light These years on the window ledge, The one strand of ivy hanging Like an arm in the pond? But it’s nothing like that Once you remember the reason You drained it in the garden Between the statue and the hedge.