Thursday, September 21, 2017

Lid & Latch

Inside the damp, torn box a bit of fluff--

Bright hair by Donne. Might be a web. Or lint.
We won't find out today. All lost, grave stuff
Waits for last things. This box, though, packs a hint
Of all the rest: we lie against the grain.
We take up too much time and too much rain

For bone to carry breath. His new, clean shape
Will grieve the man who lived for gasp and catch,
Who free of taint, not bent to bare his nape,
Will climb back in, pull down both lid and latch,
And while his thoughts last, think of sweat. In pain
He saw the light and left it. Bring the rain.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

In Adam's Autumn

Where we first sinned was probably upstairs
And not for long; but now the color changes,
The detriment of summer. I shall miss
All of the sounds that naturally make
Our natures sweet. And bitter were the days
Succeeding, red and orange, perhaps, but not
How we had planned our progeny. We went
Our solitary way, best by ourselves.

We’d hoped for Nod or Canaan, but we found
Naked trees and a furred rapacity
Of gathering and storing, and a scent
Like Nuits d’Hiver was everywhere at once.
What did we have? What did we have to lose?
Those were our final steppes. We took them all.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

The Girl in the Red Honda

Knights fell a lot. And there they lay,
Lumps on the grass or in the mud,
Their armor like a suit of clay,
Rescuing maidens, giving blood.
The dragons chuckled, and the maidens
Planted cherries in their gardens.

Cherries ripe, but very wrong
For knights encased. Whenas they ride,
They sing, but every note of song
Is lost to echoes deep inside.
The ladies listen, if they can
Desist from planting pits for man.

We leave our dragons in their caves.
We watch the maidens drive away.
The knight are cool, but agile thieves
Thrive in the distance. Dawns the day,
And knights are bold and old and gone,
Cherries ripe in the subtle dawn.

Friday, September 08, 2017

Quiet Flows the Don

They hid the old professors in the sub-
Scriptorium, in carrels made of wood
And chickenwire, gave them wi-fi, let
Them roam the stacks, as long as they were late.
They were, they always were. Was found: puns bent
To fit into the pretty bursar's door.
The bursar's gown was torn and gluey, stained;
Her person was a vacancy in time
And apprehension. Dr Rathbone wrote,
The Oxford comma marks the gentleman.
We cannot find a one about her person.
Condemned, he was, for pronomial pride,
Then built a stand behind Collected Works,
Blue and maroon, with peeling paper labels,
Accessible to none and dead to all.

Monday, September 04, 2017

When Nighthood Was in Flotsam

The staff has snapped; the flag has been misplaced.
The Coconino County Bar & Grill
Breaks both its windows, locks the doors, and posts,
Send me a kiss by wire.  Bourbon flows
Through the arroyos.  Canteens burst with beer.
The news does not report.  Tequila leaks
Upstream.  The fish are dying for a drink.
No, sir, my realism is not an art,
Says Jenny Wren, the brickbat in my pie,
The neon in her undies, my patootie.
She shines from both sides now.  The Bar & Grill
Has set cane chairs out on the promenade
And pointed them with seashell, which it sells
By the seashore, if only it were there.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

The Late Romances

Have you no toys about your person

Fit to pass the end of life,
Making the darkness tolerable--
Little colored lights and chimes
And woofs and Squeaks A Toot. The zing
Companionable? Maybe a tale,
So often told it coughs at times
And smoothes all blankets. Cup-o-soup
And grown-up nursery rhymes, which start
With Ickle Bob and Happy Sven.
These are the late romances, last
After the marriage comedies,
The tragedies of pith and pride,
Chronicled kings and ginger maids.
Bears turn to brothers, sweep the skulls
Into the pit, the old oak breathes,
Remembering when he was schooled
In naughty songbirds. Stuffed plush toys
With little lights inside their tums,
Though powered up by batteries,
Send harbor signals through the night.

Friday, August 25, 2017

The Dowager Biddy

The dowager biddy of our neighborhood
Uncovers evil everywhere: she mews
To voices lost in the wainscoting; she teems
With fled and ancient cats; she says the pith
Of the neighbors next door is spoiled, like fallen serfs
Exhausted by disaster. Debutantes
Are not what once they were: it’s in their eyes
And their tiaras. She sleeps in her car,
Parked out in front, to trick the foes and fiends
Who offer their casseroles in covered bowls
Shaped like the skulls of mayors she has known,
Domos and seneschals, now making light
Of all their troubles, there at Fairlawn, done with
The scene at Holy Family. She was there.