Friday, October 31, 2014

At sea

Cling to the wreckage, or cut myself free?
Why ask, when the storm is me?

Thursday, October 30, 2014

A coffin bright

What strikes you of the night, is how fit it seems
for wingless flight: at last, a coffin bright,
and with the depth of the spirit
meant for it.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Canvas 459

Canvas 459

October 29, 2014

Rainbows and windmills

Sometimes we leave with rainbows in our pockets,
and sometimes we travel without them,
knowing there are always rainbows about;

and yet a crumpled rainbow is its own gum wrapper,
as the saying goes, prized for its juicy-rejoicing-mad scent,
and one cannot always stop to replenish the supply;

price-per-pound, mothers in line at the check-stand,
kids in tow, everyone going somewhere,
everyone missing home, by whichever grand route;

did I say rainbows, when I meant windmills;
kids, when I meant goats; pockets, instead of boats;
that we pass beneath willows, their locks in the stream;

deep as anything; deep as your grandmother’s mixing bowl;
west by way of a smoking train, staking your claim,
sinking your well; it’s something like that, along with its smell;

fun, too; I thought I had mentioned that; or am I thinking
of grandpa’s hat, and the way it sat, and that he would,
somehow, die and be right back;

oh, grandpa, rainbows and wagon wheels,
have I really lived that long, that white walls and trailer tongues
should be all rusted, busted, and cracked;

apparently so; so apparent is that, that I forget now
whether rain-mills are windrows, or the train’s on the track;
how about that; one for you, one for me; sweet, in my lap.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Canvas 458

Canvas 458

October 28, 2014

And though you were

And though you were to forget the words,
left, page by page, blind in the sight of them;

yet, living in their light, would you not see
a dawning age, another kind of birth;

would you not be, in the taming of your rage,
the very might that they are worth?

Monday, October 27, 2014

The way you look at me

Your little craft, on a boundless sea; the sea, itself,
so small, as to be a leaf, or breath, between two stars,
suspended, by the motion, in between; the motion,
a song; the song, as vague as clear can be,
as clear is vague, and clean; the way,
you look at me, when I say,
what you think,
I mean.

Sunday, October 26, 2014


The crack, in your face, where a flower grows.

Canvas 457

Canvas 457

October 26, 2014

The lightest touch

The lightest touch; so light, you wonder if you feel it at all;

a kiss; a butterfly; spirit-fingers;

love; a breath; the wight of vision itself;

omen; prophecy; a figure in the mist off the bow;

aught said in its presence, that your absence will count;

of this, nigh, it lingers; within; without; yet else.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

A few grains of salt

A few grains of salt, a dash of memory;
here are my bones, here what I meant to be;
flowered so well, as rivers would stones;
grave is my halt, and listen without;
to laughter, the cry left of me.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Canvas 456

Canvas 456

October 24, 2014

Chance meetings

If he seems a little ugly, with his features out of place,
yet heed the pity in his face for the like of you,
blessed with beauty as you are, and waste
that soon may be the blight of you,
when by your greed and haste,
you are justly framed
by every trace
of light on

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Canvas 455

Canvas 455

October 23, 2014


Fragments, yet whole; sea-lights,
burning, now bright, now obscured by the mist;
worlds, turning, youthful, yet old; thus sent,
here-tossed, we see each face
in our own; now whose,
then, is this?

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Canvas 454

Canvas 454

October 22, 2014


From a quiet wet-black street, cast by a city lamp,
a reflection, as if the cause of clouds,
would pause, and speak,
of heaven.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Here is a door

Here is a door. Or, rather, four letters. A word.
The word opens. Light enters. A cloud. A storm. A bird.

The bird bears a message. Or, rather, the message bears her.
Four letters, four doors, four storms, four birds.

Forever. And on. Infinite doors. Letters.
Clouds. Storms. Messages. Birds.

No hands. No knobs. No frames. No walls.
Only doors. Infinite words.

Light enters. Where was it before?
No one has mentioned the dark.

No night. No veil. No blinds.
Once were. Then are.

No time. See how they fly.
Dark enters. Light. Light, as a word.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Canvas 453

Canvas 453

October 20, 2014

Upon a stream

Whence this scene, a blessing of your mind,
yet lived in, acted upon, admired, by other minds?

Whence this leaf, upon a stream,
soon departed, which remains?

And before you say, “old-fashioned,”
whither, save in kind, will ever, be the same.