In Ancient October
Ochre’s small plank
of moon-lit
resemblance ghost fire warming
knuckles and bones
then a brief loss,
waffled shadow releases
thistles by moonlight
/refinery wall
this year’s vestments
under stars’
amplitude
sparks fall’s recluse omens
how the world
is a stranger
its rags even torn
under stone’s notice
tindered wet notion
in tinctures of color
edged by wind
we save
what we can: foster
the leave’s cold history
Vernal
To sit with you
among the starlings,
yellow-eyed, their
paths hieroglyphic, and
throw some crumbs our way.
Delayed heartbeat
in the pistil
waiting under snow,
this small economy of need.
How the earth loves
fullness and resolve; here,
where jasmine’s pungent
sweetness fills the room,
from here we’re missing
like a pair of lamps,
lighting her tousled
hair reaching his pillow;
his hand reaching toward
her fragrance once again.
A rough diamond underground,
a sheen beneath
our longing, questions, vows.
Simple how lives
double, paths narrow
to a declivity of hours.
Poem
“Still, the beginnings were promising.”
—Eva Hoffman
1.
Trees’ transit
in season,
obdurate longing
ties a string
from one stone’s
heart to location,
sea-green luster of insistence.
2.
Heart of leaves,
heat of clouds,
filled with canker and ruin.
You rush past disasters,
asking yourself
what to save.
3.
Nothing innocent or free
of the stain of removal/
worlds trapped
between decree. Let it not happen here.
4.
Let light have its purpose,
intention its motive:
What fount flows
at our feet?
What crime stands down?
Bone-white reckoning,
quills of air enshrouded.
5.
The world is
kindled and burning,
respite breathed
By candles’ slow shining.
