poetry

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet