Forsythia first, pinprick yellow blooms,
Then inky crocus and pastel tulips.

Daisy chains and floral crowns,
With woven leaves and knotted stems,
Twisted into shackles on wrists.

Nooses around necks never were scented sweeter
Than when winter hung from green branches.



Shadows on the wall,
Where their cold hands couldn’t bear to touch
And in between these tangled hours
The eruptions of a narcoleptic lair.

Caught between the auger and the oak,
Sipping sunsets under cherry trees and feigning interest in world affairs.
Vague admonitions of distant gods
Who hovered with clenched fists or open palms.

Never really knowing if a gap in the teeth meant the same as a grin
Or if theirs was a high horse meant for the lipless.

Wandering mica breezes in solitude,
Silhouettes caught in storms of glittered dirt and littered rain
Watched it all crumble to ruin in the span of one thousand nights,
Contorted into a prospector’s hour
Spent counting dollars in thongs and gold on wrists.

Ticking down the thread
In beats per minute, on the face of a Rolex.

From the heat of a summer day spawned
The loins of a bursting frog and the eggs that sprayed backward,
Blurring black the green murk of the pond,
Enveloping puddles where muddy boots stomped
And umbrellas dropped.

Through sunlit lashes and weary thumbs,
They knew it all but never spoke a word of truth.


Three quarters left—
but not one was mine
Persimmons in November—
build a shrine

Ice on the Highway

Ice on the highway
A shroud of lace
Sliding on grey skin
Slipping out and over.

Life moves soft and subtle
Blurring into flashing lights
Counting fingers and feet
Between black and white.

Sinking in and seeing
There was no guarantee
The road rolls on
With no mind for the bumps beneath.