and the palest
shadow
racing after
it. It's not
a child
or star. It's never
far, but it's
equally hard
to
catch. No latch
will
hold
it.
It comes
after thunder, wedged under
the door- a letter? No. I cannot
hear
its words. It's the thought before all thought
was
born, and it's
made
of herring
bone
in a man's sleeve
leaving. It's all
fathers
tossed. All brothers
forgotten - shaving cream and jeans- it's the
strain
of loss, its wicked fingers
fretting
harmonicas - it's
hopping trains. It's the thrilled and terrible cost
of two
legs
walking
away - it's the men
gone
out
of time,
for
all time, walking
down a road
without
even
a whistle.
Simple Rot
Gardens
hearts
and flowers are designed
for
simple rot. It's
life's
stock
and trade
to
fade
to foul
to
flare
a moment, glorious
then fall
to
black
stacked corpses
flies
in the
eyes, a perfume in the air
that
creatures slink from, saddened. Afraid
of entropy - afraid
of the
giving up, assured
of a
time stamped
shelf
life
closer
to the box. We rot -
though
we don't
believe it.
So we
write.
Misspent
Ever
pour so much effort
into
a thing, only to discover
when you
wake up
the day
afterward, that it looks like gypsy moths
riding bicicles
backwards
on
a wire
over a concourse
filled with gap
toothed
back
woodsmen
who wouldn't
know a turnip
from
a turd,
and like most
absurdities
it makes you laugh.
Clean
That's the way the air smells
today, the evergreen
and the
leaves
mingling
in a green aroma that delights me. Cool
it is. The sunlight bleaches everything, so every
spore, each
mold
and mildrew withers
and wastes away
beneath
its beneficent beams, and it
seems
I'm
even
younger today. The bones groan
less.
There's happiness
of
a kind
I used to know
when just a child. My wild heart
softly
caressed
in sun and air as precious
as it once
was long
ago
because
it's clean. No taint - if I had paint
I'd
tint it
white
and stainless - green around the edges
in the way
a honeydew
is perfect, white
with just a hint of lime. This
day
is mine:
the child, the sky - the rest is
meaningless.
The heart grows stronger
with
each breath - my
youth
come
back
to me.
Called Horse
Woke up
with the smell
of saddle
leather
in my nose. Aroma
of tack
room
even though I never rode, part
of me must
have
been
remembering
another place, another time, when shine
of coat
and length
of braided mane
must have meant
something
fine.
So fine, it filters through time
and resurrects in dreams where every obstacle
is hedge
