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