Last night I hung 
my sleep out of a sill 

till dawn 
I eloped 
the primordial 

windshield 
of my 4-door sedan

And walked by 
the light of gravel 
and the grin 

of the Moon.
Three stars led 

me this and that 
and there too.
(Mars was its closest of all recorded time.) 

The clearest was Mars 
but I lost

7 hours of my life
of leisure 
I walk with difficulty

As I passed your house 
or his and hers 

The dogs would howl 
one’s wet maw, my wrist 
I feared. 

Otherwise alone, and 
long deer legs cracking 
twigs somewhere unknown. 

The forest was impenetrable 
I could not think 

my way through it 
even to enter an inch. 
I stayed firmly 

Planted on gravel heels 
sometimes running, always 

Walking faster 
and water was 
my greatest desire. 

I’ve never wanted 
woman more. 

Once though, I heard 
voices, saw people, a fire 
a circle, all standing 

Happy ritual,
I passed unnoticed. 

There is something spiritual 
in a campfire circle 
some magic that must

Not be tapped 
if you can’t equally replenish it. 

And when bodies of 
drunken men are 
elongated by fire 

The look ominous 
unfriendly, and you think 

Over the next hill I 
could be home, though
you know you are more 

Lost than you were 
when you set off from 

The wreck of your 
totalled park avenue 
with electric everything

which nobody would
ever drive again after you
hung it up last night.

preparing
to soften
against the close

quickness
of those
coarse teeth.

Like pipes
we coupled
in the backlot

rattling

you leaned over
a rusty diswasher
and I pried
locked hinges off.

Jewels 
Bubbles bracelet
her limbs
emerging from the bath 
dripping 
the sequins
of her lather vest 
shyly scooping
arms full of bubbles and
wrapping them over 
like a present
dressed 
in iridescent foil.

My love's a canary
while at her nest
lurk cuckoos 
she's mothering
but upon my request
she'll turn them loose 
when I'm the cuckoo
at her breast
between two smooth eggs 
attempting to pursue
a secret quest
(to climb the longest legs) 
often tried and fell
without rest
to reach those eggs again 
(and even cracked my shell)
but now I'll test
my beak against them 
the tips of which
I find the hardest
points of their ellipse 
those shapes amaze
one with interest
(like watching an eclipse) 
I am a spy
at her behest
to watch them overnight 
with eagle's eyes
(for I've the best
of all views in sight) 
until the sun awakes
rising from her rest
she flutters up again 
to bathe in lakes
she always protests
as I follow her in
for her love's a snake,
her one (and only) sin.

None of us
have any business
understanding each others'
references, in truth
blank stares are all we give

I used to go
for a coffee now
and then, irregularly
the nights weren't
altogether so long. 
Now people don't talk
I listen

Someone said near me,
"what am I saying...hmm..."
rhetorically, of course, but why
think the tips of our tongues
should always have
answers on them

One milks her coffee
spread out the moments
our conversations consisted of
spreading out
each drink, meal,
day, year, you name it

She's there again someday
in the chair that's usually
mine, she has come
and is sitting in it
casually "Hello", You "Oh my"
and "what a surprise" for both
but I leave for
a sofa, coffee so close
to spilling

Neither one looks
directly at
the other, conversations
live within us
not between.  I never saw
when she left
nor, I suppose, she me.

rheumatic gray
fingers of birches
brush strokes
into pearl skies

dark birds
leaping branches
like ladders
not touching ground

foot prints
foraging
through the snow over
buried roots

hibernating fists
in a stand
of oak
caskets.

in the unending
poetry
of complete darkness

lips move quickly
because they aren't
putting on shows

because the way
I watch your tongue
like cracking fire

hydrant seals
rushing
anxious blasts

blow hoses
and holders
right over

conversations
in those emergencies
happen to be poems

because as we
are striving
you can't sit

still staring up at
me like lonely dogs
and angry kittens.

two
forms fire
zipper flash
under the skin thick tent of night
bright bodies of possibility burn

three
lay down
below swollen bellied storms
pregnant ladies
they hiss and moan

four
kamikazes
clashing
through the sky
like Icarus plummeting

five
cocoons
are bodiless
ghosts'
rising in flames

gone, remembered incompletely
like the reflection
on a broken window

seems cold, so pointed
yet invalid, immovable
and already

past the point where none
can be re-placed
big shimmery rectangles

fit in a frames, the shards
go unswept
on a rugless plane

drawing
no blood, only air
unbending as the glass.

sometimes its those
unconnected pieces
that shine most bright

like you should put one
in your pocket to keep.
but that's dangerous

and we all know it
is those who don't
kill themselves on the breaking

of it all. 
music, if pieces all hung
suspended, wind chimes

fractile figures, spinning
weights and measures
geometry like constellations.

from other angles
look otherwise
galaxies away

the hunter is a lover
the dragon is a wreath
and beauty is often not.