High tide,
the ocean shifts gears…
withdrawing sand
First of July…
rain sounds but no rain,
back of the bus
That tree
thinks about what the wind
might do next
Third of July,
ice blocks the pitcher’s spout…
corkscrewed Diet Coke
tanka:
Projector:
Ticks
of the uptake reel
spinning alone…
story’s end wears thin
A quiet heat…
Sat still his whole life…
at the last second–one arm
closer to the stars
Marchers gone home…
I watch steady storm spatter
take the concrete
Tenth week of the plague…
they pull down their masks
to talk over the dog
Beard to his belt
and one black boot halfway
onto the bus
Autumn of the heart…
if we’re all dead, who takes stock
of the curled leaves?
Lightbulb not like dawn,
March,
forgiven sins at last…
a roast beef sandwich
At my death…
will even the wasted time
comfort me?
He speaks to me
in the dreams I don’t have
until summer
The Air Force man
holds a sapling, two feet
from the root ball
Thick thud,
the cooper’s mallet–
so much sleet!
March…
By the prison gate
lone brown napkin somersaults
forward in the breeze
Man in the wheelchair
needs his umbrella back...
sweat bulbs in my sleeves
Twilight-tinged window
scent of cooking liver
three hours to Sunday
"O, no one loves me!"
a game for my mind
woolly countless eons
One shoe, a tin cup
spoiled celery for breakfast
shadow of the church
Madman screams again
A wheel, broken
but not so you would notice
dazzles travelers
Pullman porter
sits open-handed and still
his eyes, twin spirals
Solitary breath
in the fetid men’s room
stink doctors long gone
A branch’s shadow
wavers at 3 am
over the dead lamp
The politician
says it isn’t either/or
as I hide from the storm
One dead movie star’s
My window ticks once
at a brushstroke from the rain
wind keepsakes the rest
But how many friends
can you have, if all you see
fills all that you know?
Banana milk, drunk
years ago, long-dead diner
returns to my tongue
The night crests morning
only my two stinky feet
keep me company
Teakettle whistles,
but it’s in another room
along with my mind
How proud of my words!
He didn’t shoot me
for looking at him funny
so here I am now
I’ll file my report
the whiskey ran off with my night
leaving splintered sun
That pecking pigeon
could it wander through the doors
of the southbound train?
A flagger, shrouded
in bright orange; excavator
waits for the whistle
And I’m lumped in with
this whole busload, young to old
watching the fall storm
Hoodied, with gnarled hands
Ash tree scratches air
outside the window still lit
after 3 am
One bright orange balloon
from the bunch, lost to the wind…
the sky’s only color
Two woolly afghans
curled by knees on the bed
kept close; that’s enough
Starlight, come how far
to glisten at the edges
of my open blinds
History is made
about two blocks south of here
I’m warm in the dark
History? Foolish.
Thursday happy hour
tabletop, sticky with beer
a saint, undisturbed
Bus driver, stone-faced
under a handlebar ‘stache
lets the cyclist live
Power, knowing that
you never get this moment
to regurgitate
“I am still freezing”
from Tolstoy’s summation of
his Russian winter
That someone would come
along but no, really you
have to save yourself
Seahawks umbrella
The library’s doors
laid flat for their new fall paint
yellow tape guards maw
Read the Tao Te Ching
and mop up cigarette butts
in time, convergence
Ah, but how much time…
suppose I haven’t the strength
to while away Now
Posthumous toilets
wrenched sweatily curbside
on crooked revue
Dark at 1:20
(pm, that is): Straight into
summer-ending storm
Mecca Cafe fries
Dying alone? Well,
what is it but dying, plain,
plus a codicil?
She told me to leave
and I’m the only witness
to one good deed done.
Those bedbugs again,
spread through our laundry room grime
whom shall they favor?
Summer sensation
dry lower lip pulls back from
sticky incisors.
The old man’s left hand,
top of the driver’s headrest
slight shake as brakes squeak.
She ties on a branch