who spreads their wings where grass is deep

who stares from air that cannot breathe

 what song sings the branch to stand apart from its tree

 

what comes to light when rain begins to weep

what is the fate of a wind that clings to small things

for how many lifetimes shall the green heart beat

 

empty hands

hold me above

a wind of unknown depth

 

an empty glass :: it blocks my view

 

there is evidence of sky in us

knowing the road has injured my soul

peace where waves gathering dissolve

 

the mirrors of her life grow stiff

wooden chairs from barefoot children

a dark mouth on either side of the wound

 

put the car in a pit, it

is time to go—

a crust of bread

works slowly to blind

 

mourners have lost their way to the grave

and the dead waiting

for his death to be put underground

 

how grave is the feast of the diminished garden

how many lives know the solstice of ruin

when soldiers toy with saviors, who dies

 

sunset, i drink the windows just :: like a Hopper she said

 

whatever you carry the sky is huge

 

as each stone leaves my hand, it :: balances on the one below

 

why are we so rarely flower :: to face with joy

 

from the moth a feathering :: of nakedness

listen to the islands, we :: become ocean by degrees

there are planets in her :: steps, oiled and pearly

 

the garden exactly our :: bed's shadow

the pearl that draws you :: unclasped

stop because a :: dead branch goes through it

 

completing a weed :: forests urge silence

bird without a sky :: she cannot arrive

death of the prairies is also :: a man

 

who wrote this :: her mind must be all around

here is my father :: hiding the universe

life, leave me untitled :: encourage my sound

 

walnut, put :: our leaves out first

soul's small lion :: sparrow

crickets, it :: should be obvious

 

is there a thread on the water where we can meet

is there blood where hopelessness ends

how many shall the doves strip of their skin

 

use a sweet knife, love, where i am lost

 

stranger things come to pass than standing in line for time

 

full of the useless

yet i pull a few weeds

study knots on the faces of trees

 

warm sun on an april stone no heavier than a spiral

 

witnessed by watery light that is never not here

you shall appear and reappear

and i shall awaken

 

wash peace from your words

launch a maelstrom

walk through the split in your soul

 

like something yellow you would do :: daffodil

 

blood in the river

blood in the breeze

the safest place to be is lost

 

a man leans toward earth

she listens begins

dropping blossoms

 

apple blossoms weighted

with snow

they ask me where we are going

 

thinned by mist

the mountain grows tired

grass quietly eating rain

snowflakes :: staying in touch after death

 

the long sentence of the voice at three in the morning, blameless

 

 

o keeper of darkness, don't we walk into life through parallel doors

 

a man breaks down, but i don't speak about the weight of the stone

 

the cherry blossom

you held out

was you

 

poems just published in tiny wren lit (issue 6) and chrysanthemum (issue 32)!

 

wind blows my fingers off

            small fossils

free of mind

 

            emerging

from a random sky

      a withered tree

 

a child and his face

have all the light

            the sea lies flat

 

five monostich:

the long limbs of human light ascending

a face without eyes the moon spills its sand

an audience reading around the desk of solitude

empty chairs in a cornfield a birthing begins

coming home to the guardian stone

 

an old rain is staring out the window

high in the winter trees

my garden has built a nest

 

spring rain :: fat stones

 

within an earlier melody

unknown outside the dream

are the lands i am and will learn to perceive

 

whose expanse of lake is sane enough

to receive the grace

of winter geese

 

being asleep while two calling owls speak the language of night

            rain's rhythm

dawn chorus

            the river begins

 

afraid of the eclipse :: i was right to be

 

droning engines die

                wind sound

                               vast

 

death of the sun

            tomorrow, eclipse

                        shadow of man, of moon

 

blue-green lichen

            on rain-darkened trees

                        journal of dreams

 

in the last car of the train

            nodding asleep, holding the way home

                        open

 

a rainbow 

            to end the day—

three journeys in last night's sleep

 

three monostich:

dreaming snow last night in different lives

the same bed years apart restored from ashes

small beginning dropped in the night in the soil

 

doves are nesting in a yard i've stopped speaking to

 

opened the window

dropped an ant

into spring

 

no mountains here

            —what is higher

than thunder

 

geese flying

            a pair—

no gazing at the sky

 

in a sweet scented breeze

            i don't know

whose petals

 

using a mourning dove's coo

to quiet

my ears

 

lost the moon

            behind a pine

                        so the day begins

 

long wings

            climbing a thermal

virgin sky

 

rainy skies

            flowers sleep

hazy moon

            flowers dream

 

kneeling

hands in mud

restoring water to flow

 

eaves drip

                        dripping

            the swollen heavens dry

 

            mixing vinegar and water

before easter

                        snow squalls

 

with stems that stood

through winter—

                        here i'll plant my life

 

the wind

the house

i listen to them moan

 

the sun is warm

            the windflowers will

lift their heads

 

under heaven's freedom

            to be stormy or clear

wearing my black beret

 

equinox

            the widower has grown

a new beard

 

dead branches

my living hands

breaking

 

picking up the dollar

        someone dropped

a buddhist nun walks by

 

morning with

a killing frost

                she prefers my naked face 

 

pine forests i cannot see from

            ohio

                        the sky reaches there

 

            limbs that walk

limbs that grow

            three old oaks and i

 

sky and winds loud and restless all day about money

 

releasing water from a stagnant pool i look within

 

a moonless night

my neighbor's light

all this hurry to die

 

a pregnant moon

we

climb into bed together

 

killed

on the road

i have no heart for travel

 

morning sky

            evening of my life—

receive the waxing moon

a quick thunderstorm has left me rushing

 

 

shuffles away in his body

the wind

bends

a tree

 

white orchids

            yellowing—

i have an appointment to be cured

 

away, alone

a gravel road

blackbirds chattering

 

an early windflower

white 

where snow never fell

 sharing last night's

                           dreams

                                dawn bleeds

 

            to avoid my hands

an injured finch

            flutters from death on the road

 

for pine cones swept to an asphalt fate i grieve

blue umbrella

            broken rib

cloudless skies

 

even the old orchard

            turns death

 into grass

sawing downed limbs into rolls of thunder

 

tracing wounds

            across the spiraling sky

                        fallen tree and i

 

plundering an abandoned nest

                                             one crow 

                                                    death

within

            the paper lantern

                        storm-darkened ohio night

 

the artist

sheds

his clay

 

coming up from the basement to a house still standing

 

 

flow of clouds beyond the bough of a newly dead tree

 

in the warmth of the sun i offer the sun my warmth

 

the way forward

        lonely day

drone of a small plane