The Wettest Yet

It's raining but the dog won't come in.

All morning a sobbing sky

leaving no room for imagination.

His naked hands in November, like that, but colder

just before the heat.

That's how it is losing a heart

to the highway – like the sun sinking in half

degrees or like eating the moon

down to the rind. East is the story I make believe

in the middle of a Michigan night

with broken blinds, either always drawn or always exposed.

Oh my northern lights!

My bleeding sand dune screams and whispery pine songs!

The boats are empty now

the shores without moors.

Seiche rising.

I remember when the sun warmed my clothes

hot shirt against sweating skin

Will it rain for 40 days? The wettest yet; the impossible get.

Is it not you

looking for something to burn?

A jonquil sunrise

and ghosts of quatrain lines

pouring whiskey into the wishing well.

Is this a tango or a waltz?

Wallflowers the size of broken hearts. I saw

fingerprints on her guitar in the 23rd Psalm bar light.

Lay me down, good shepherd. Wrap me

in the lashes of a willow. Build the ark.

Sail to Nineveh.

Just do something before we drown.





crumpled up

bed blankets of time

stretched out as hours


by dawn or dusk or black sky sleep

I cannot be the monk

his face disappearing


because it is all terminal

yet dilution hems the want

with the expectations of others and the honor

of perception

which god demands this night-scape?

in the hills purple and dusty blue

pines grow together over cinnamon

and cones

and armless spindles forcing the eye

upward for an anchor

the swish of floating whispers speak

volumes of everything we haven't said


autumn and I would talk all night

blotting the dream path

unaware of the moon perhaps

that is what aloneness is for



Acorns Already

pacing the glass room –
they see me and
I see them

more than light passes, you know?
the barrier existing

Heiden's Sonata
over and over lifting
and the beauty

always nearby

Acorns already –
the danger of it

remove the throne
and the two worlds meet
a benefactor to none

shimmering through the veil –
why do you keep hiding?
I fall apart

blue jay squawks
and the doctrine of summer

when moons swim in puddles
one could bury the creator
and the created

yet “Am” rises
through the soil

the cicadas prattle

to ignore
is to meet winter

it will all spill
if one allows

the allowance
the fall
the amicable yet misguided
turning away from this



July Swimming Away

I watched the swan with a dirty neck
and the tan of eternity
all over my own face

He preens. But for whom?
another July swimming away –
staggered stops before wintertide

A warm place to tread water

Pines watch the moon
drift into them
into me

How slightly the night draws in
blue light torching
thought into hot ash

Which universe careens without the mind?

I float spring-fed on the lake
under bluejay skies, losing feathers in an arc –
an eyelet made for threading

steady now
It'll only hurt for a bit

This is how I beg for the endgame

A fawn in the may apple patch
noticing a hawk  –
the peep of dawn 

blackberry bruises
on ninety degree days
so hold still now until it cools

The part of me that sleeps

Nameless grasses and the errant
untethered silken strands
of rainbows reeling

and I watch with Tom Petty sunglasses
in a filtered murkiness
of summer solitude

Can't you hear the deer gently chewing?

Soon it will all be adrift
a frosted glistening in the air
too cold to walk the dog

The white backs of sleeping bears
huddling along the shoreline –
six months of unbroken gray

The imagination winter lacks

With what is left
handfuls of blueberries and freckled kisses
and the way ladybugs gather on screens

And light
that won't leave
until after ten

Maybe a few more strokes across the bay