This is a season unspent:
there will be snow yet and storms.
Today’s cold recalled
Before us stand the mockings of a god:
Sound shapes and divine invocations,
the sun itself a
Sing to me another morning vision
across the blurry borders of a dream
when words reveal
Thirsty fools in
a fresh water ocean
empty cups in hand
as if arid thoughts
The park that sold this house
is still there outside my window.
Our kids are grown,
Niggles and nags make for hours unending,
years appear moments that stealthily flee,
What is it that your books say of the winter?
Do the words speak of hunger and wolves,
A quiet place waits at the end of passion,
rumored by the blind,
the last reward for righteous
An aging sun sits atop a clear horizon,
birds bicker over bright things in the grass.
Lights line the river on both sides,
the air is tourist cold, comfortable.
A late boat arrives to
The world, a cave,
a cacophony of echoes,
the work of voices and hands–
Pluck the fruit of summer labor
before first frost
and crows claim corn.
Give over sleep
"Who are they?", we dare not answer,
they and we are much the same,
we, a name for claiming
This patch could be any other:
A spot of grass below
a blue and clouded canvas
and I, an ancient
we see simplicity
regular lines of fixed length
the voice of our fathers
“This way to the cheese.”,
said the mouse in the maze
as he walked along walls with ease.
God placed the apple in Eden knowing—
Let loose the snake.
Condemned to everlasting
For a bite he
And you would have me share—
Are you crazy?
What don’t you get about insane?
My will is a warm
God bless every cause
and every contradiction,
every asshole with an idea.
Give them bullhorns
Awake again to tasks and daily ways;
Reluctant rise to foot the well worn soil,
the stomach calls,
Poor me, we cry, then wash our hands;
this world of ours makes such demands
and no one knows just
A tower stands among a fist of smaller structures,
middle finger to the sky—
Man’s “I am” answer
A confusion of ivy—
The city’s heart is steel and stone.
Smokestacks slouch in the
I’m dumb to leaves and prairie grass;
a million colors can't be named.
Wind conspires with