pines
stargazing
pointing towards Orion –
my loose embers
finally fall

harvest

orchard grass
and apples
falling

hay
rolled backwards
into time

symmetry
of husks in the fields
sleeping

winter barns
hosting ancient beams
and cold strays

we could make love
here, an abundant
harvest

turning land
into food and falling
to bed in relief

a grey moth
clinging to curtains
in doused light

what if I am undone
by rough hands and dirt
under fingernails

what if I am
an unrequited writer
bartering poems for seed

who made me
and why –
this wildflower ending

dreary little poem

tired of rules
and jealous
of the passion in yellow
falling leaves

hair hopelessly
twisted in the wind
I am eating sunlight
out of cans

still hours
in the dark
sap-stuck fingers
in the grooves of bark

death lies
to the beloved
but I tell you the truth
forget-me-not forever

pine branches
stooped with rain
quiet days fall
into meager
remains

cardinal chirrups
rising against soft rain
ineffable blush
hosting flutters
of heaven

October flower
your unimpeachable
touch –
last to exist
before the end

rusted days
and newly naked
fields

our apostolic furrows
cradling remnants
of everything we meant to share

October mosaics
our stained glass glow
sunlight draws a line
as if to ask
who is not my lover?

To Mourn a Muse

muses
set on fire
at the stake

to be nothing
but the depth
of desire

bloody feet
faltering
to the cross

cleft shoulders
shielding the face
from stones

something left her
with nothing
in its place

some sickle
whistles through
putrid air

this fading lamp
through a dusted
window

gives
for the last
time

red-winged blackbirds
long since fled
beyond standing husks
and bent cattails

sunrise stutters
and nights fall
as a guillotine
against the floorboards

winter
on the rise
our scarlet letters
fall upon the last warm things

winter
my executioner –
pine boughs bend
to kiss this yawning
child

scars

I remember on the lip
of the Devil's Soup Bowl

my gaze falling
into glacial scars

sweat stinging my eyes
before a dizzying glance

unearthed I was smaller
and larger than I knew

sketching gardens
but tasting savannas –
Acacia smoke above
flowering fire
pockets emptied of stones

barn edges

sewing the cleft
between pine and maple

a good ache
between my shoulders

I consider a moth-like love
dust colored and safe

and yet
your barn edges

as a frayed world
catching my soul's garment

as if to say
come here you

To the River

you
took my soul
to the river –

despite ripening orchards
and last campfires she is
not coming back

Sewn

my image
a pressed flower
in a book

yours
a sea glass bottle
on the sill

our makeshift cross
sewn by unseen
hands

Sunday

sun-blind
in worship –
let me crawl east
to the shadow of blue
hills

spindrift
wanting only
to hold your hand –
are we split
by slanted light?

Seeds

planting
a book of songs
for next year's harvest
a prophet sketches savannahs
yet my garden becomes the sky