the classical hides
within the vernacular
like a clutch of eggs
wood-winded
or unreedable
all flesh is brass
shivery
with bowed strings
and ceremonious mallets
an attenuated conductor
bobs in the dark mirror
of a piano
a piccolo shrieks
like a rabbit
caught by an owl
clarinets
rubbing my belly I grow
old and ugly
all winter I am broke
and in summer like a child
I dig for gold
the earth going to pieces
in my pocket
Remembering a time in my life when I still found people interesting and believed in the future. I think I’m happier now that I have no particular expectations.
once again
finding my fly unzipped
snowflakes
on my bald head
tapping woodpecker
subnivean
I tunnel through the day
half awake
Groundhog Day
the former coal town living
off a shadow
cabin fever
today’s potato flaky
as old wood
meltwater pool
the way my reflection
keeps shivering
cold moon
cold snap
the one-take tune I make
breaking icicles
barbaric yawp
you say the coyotes sound
as if they're fighting
brings marvels:
a phoebe diving for snow fleas,
the track of a chipmunk,
a turkey vulture flapping its wings.
in this foreign land
Norway maple leaves turn
ugly
upside-down somehow
in my phone’s photo
false Solomon’s-seal
backwater
stream-blurred trees come into
sharper focus
Keep Your Dog on a Leash
the notice board co-signed
by porcupine teeth
elderly beech
bark gathered in folds as if
it doesn’t fit right
zigzag scar
in a hemlock trunk
its sealed lips
graceful
the arc of a tree’s
mid-life crisis
the vanishing distance
between their two positions
oakhemlock
The song of the womb begins
on a minor key among the bivalves
and sea cucumbers, whose tunes
are all palindromes and serve
a purely decorative purpose.
The song of the womb sounds best
played by a full orchestra, despite
the many adaptations for solo flute.
It’s got rhythm—that probably goes
without saying—and sheet music.
It can be used to communicate
over great distances underwater.
Scientists say the song of the womb
may predate the evolution
of consciousness! It is not, however,
the first choice of the womb itself,
Let me down one cat a time:
the cat that wakes me by sitting on my face
the cat that ignores me
the cat that pushes vases off of tables
the cat that was once magic but now just lies around and gets fat
the cat that kills birds out of irritation at their wings
and the cat that disappears in the middle of a sentence
like a body flung from a bridge while the soul
carries on, oblivious,
yowling about the goddamn hunter’s moon.
They have never stopped watching me
or reminding me of my own,
inferior pair that cannot shoot
sweetness at the world’s
avid mouths. They lurk
in mirrors and behind drapes,
disguise themselves as crockery,
solar flares, or bells that ring
backwards: wholly holy.
If they were ever to blink,
we would all disappear—
let’s keep them under wraps
and over underwires where
they’ll be safe. Only then can men
preserve our immense dignity
and not tremble like virgins