Everyone is a sleep

Across the dark caverns
of our silent home,
I wake
to the rhythms
and repetitions
of her worry.

Through layers
of  shell and yolk,
I emerge a fledgling
imprinted with her song.

Flesh

She carves herself
into a rocking chair,

and finds her place
on the porch.

In a steady sway
of grainy regret,

the hurt of having
flesh remains.

Amphibian Polygamy

We have joined a nudist colony of toads--
a slippery, slimy, intoxicating plunge.

By moonlit pools of treacherous muck,
we catch last glimpses of our love.

Zucchini blossoms
abort themselves
over well-fertilized soil.

Along a gravel path,
so littered with weeds,
a stranger asks

if we have children
of
our
own.

Thursday

I roll through the day like a trapezoid.

Wednesday

I army crawl

through halls,

passing below

the suppressive
nature

of the workday.

6:30

A poem wakes up and looks for someone to write him,

but no one is there, so he goes back to sleep.

What Writing Used to Be

It used to be
I'd grab a pencil,
and bring the tip
against my forehead.

I'd pause
for just a moment,
and slam my head
against the table.

With twist and turns,
the boring would begin.
And I'd watch
liquid brain drip out.

Prostration

Isabelle is playing possum
in the fields again,
pretending to be dead
as the day goes by.

As grass grows
and bug swarm
we kick dirt at her
and laugh.

Old Town

It must be spring--
Through open windows,
the roar of trucks rolling by.

Bookmark

I am the corner
of a page
folded over.

I drip down the leg
of my favorite chair
and drown in a pool
of boredom.

The Breadmaker

Bread crumbs shed

on the kitchen floor.

Through dusty waves

of whole wheat pollen,

we watch the bread tree grow.

She is carrots and beets,

and parsnips bent

over wooden spoons,

swells of sauvignon

drowning

dripping

dried out

on the floor.

Goodbye

Banana wheel rolls

off counter's edge

She calmly packs

her things

into the blender.

Mountain Laurel

Teetering

Beneath her knife,

the seesaw

of apple slice.

Company

Along battered cascades,
mossy rocks
and pink tube socks.

The sycamore's pale
yellow and green
sway above like buggers
in a breeze

Bee in Wild Geranium

May 3rd

Remembering

Sour waves of violence
on the palimpsest of mind

Yarn Over

She knits
green scarves
to undo
what's unraveled.

She parachutes over acres of love,
unprepared.

Prayer

Unsour
the fruits
that fall
upon
our lives.

Glancing Blows

The unwelcoming

of patience lost.

I've seen that look

before.

Sips of gas-stop's finest

on endless roads.

I drive with the sludge

on my mind.

The unflooding of winter

back into a dusty autumn day.

Janvier

The subtle pause

of a new

year

Wrapped in blankets

and snow

I remember anew

my love

Clickety-Clack.

The sounds 

of a dissertation

unstalled.

Dishes break themselves
on the kitchen floor.
Cupboard-doors slam
against the woodwork.

I watch as a woman
(who for so long
has been invisible)
tries to make herself known.

A women is bent

into a staircase

and walked upon.

To her,

I am 

just a strange

sack of skin

with eyes.

We come home 

and find

the compassion 

we've saved

(for years)

is gone.

A woman weeps
over gallon jugs:

three for a quarter

one for a dime.

Gray

I slip into silver

on the slipperiest

of slopes.

From faucet to drain -

she appears and vanishes

like drops of water.

Hands on a Mug

Oolong tea

oozes warmth

and reprise.

Unaccomplishment

whimpers

in a dream

of powdery snow

We are dragged

through winter days

so swollen 

with rain and mud

Holiday Conservation

We patch

together

and iron out

the torn

and crumpled-up

wrapping paper

Flakes

You give to me

that pan-fried, 

fishy smile again.

The foliage unwinds -

our hands sway 

above the orange 

and browns

I find holes

in bed

where

I've slipped

away.

Lemonade

We toss her tears

from the windowsill

and make rainbows.

She folds 

green sheets

twice over.

Along 

the worn 

down

edges

she revisits

the memory

of her rape.

Perspective

Some will say 

that you ran away

(and that is fine).

I know you ran away

to find me

(and that is better).

The immunity of trauma

held hostage in secrecy.

A bird flew

straight into me 

and died.

My becoming 

invisible

grows

 

from persons

to animals