With a sad smirk I count these thin
threads and scattered leaves. Can a
pale thing still be stitched. The fan says
tick tick at its apogee and
the mass wearies. I try and I tell
but there’s just a little breeze so
easily turned off I don’t want
to confuse or obscure, much, but
each character wants their own half-baked say
oh it's OK we know what we are
so why not own the joke and pity
the poor scholar with her rough lamp of
vegetable grease as she sorts lies from
poetry, black beans from bits of clay,
Tag: leaves
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But first into the palanquin don’t
worry it’s all above-board and just
a little indulgence for the weekend
when certain leaves are likely to
fall or stay though we find it’s nothalf as bright or sweet as we had
hoped so underground for a few
rounds and yes we would rather be
back at the dig where we hope toconfirm our suspicion that the
dinosaurs were really quite small
and by means of a process unique tothe ancient earth over barely
countable aeons grew enormous
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in an age when close and distant cloud
I make what you won’t want to eat and wait
for the snow scrape and salt that wakes us too
early or too late little mountains pen
in sugared cars I try to lift this snowwith homemade rhythm into clouds
like berries almost black but how
long do I have to long for long-lasting
mud and birds who stay a bit and fly backa breath that leaves green leaves to shake
so let’s finish the crackers and
call them cookies we can watch amovie through the neighbor’s window
just balance on this pile of skulls
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Our parents were fine but not really
up to the task though neither were theirs
and so on back to darkness and so
what more backache more allergies more
stuff you don’t know how to get rid ofthe closet has been full since we moved
in and the water reaches only
so far as leaves tightly spin up a
bit and then a small spiral down butdon’t worry about these discarded
takeout containers from the cheapest
places someone will clean up laterafter all look at the precisely
folded mountains the peaceful cold lake
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Sonnet
in what may have been a park weeds
without flowers climb white clouds cling
to the mountain an open wound
that won’t stop oozing broken mouths
growl in rusted junk chain-link yardsthe town gets smaller with every
breath though they never think to bite
the hands that keep them in cages
while kids throw stones at a hornet’s
nest dream of pills and lotterywins and the dog no longer feels
the chain that choked his younger daysand those who ran away still see
themselves mirrored in cracked black stone
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slow syrup in my sternum sweetens the lost leaves’ silver session
(First published in Under the Basho.)
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Sonnet
with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves
other animals 