(2008)
Early morning mist Loon fishing quiet water Shining wake behind
once the larvae have hatched how long can they survive without… each day I go forceps in hand to count the dead
(Based on the fact that 95% of household dust is our own skin cel… flakes of me circling in the sunli… bits of you lying on the bureau gather them in a beaker
she watches him as if the fault were in her eyes poor shorn Sampson withered hands grip the canes that barely hold the frail reflect…
how pathetic to be born without wings such gifts should be for womankind, too
last night the winter world transformed to summer’s sphere fireflies in the night their aimless paths alight
Life has a way of playing the vile… Or, providing an evener, some migh… I, who did not want to go to war, Seeing the senselessness of it, Stayed at home to work the farm -
a cookbook is a strange place to find a recipe for the mind but the notes tell me the lemon tr… blooms year ‘round, never stops; while one branch sweetens the air
Tide tickling sun’s wake Under a thin skin of ice Beach disappearing
wind tangled trees coiling across a yellow moon spiraling leaves surf-curled dunes
death is absence of thought - zen how can we be afraid of something we cannot live to experience? it’s life that is frightening
The taste of winter ice Dug in August from the sawdust Of Conley’s ice house The slap of the screen door On Grammy’s porch
Me: I love to drive He: it’s too damn dangerous safer to fly, statistics prove it
Beneath that secretive smile A strong hot thrust From a sidewalk grate….
come sit beneath my branches and read to me from dead poets for I am old all texture and symmetry a conspiracy of cocoons