The Eagle and the Cat
First the eagle glid low overhead.Then the farm cat, lame and tabby,limped from bumper to dumpster,while we smokedand whined about our day. Image: Patrick Brinksma on Unsplash
Category: Death
Three Rib Bones with Trains and Rain
Three rib bones flush from the culvert pipeafter hunks of pelvis beside the tracks –the tracks with no arms but rumblerumble strips and red bell ticks. Clang go the boneswhere no grass grows Bang go the trainsand the pink prairie rose Rattles with the rushin the same stiff pose as ribs and hunks of pelvis […]
The Crumpled Snow
The orange slim line of the chopper overheadMeans only one thing here – certainty.Certainty that northeast of where I standIs a near departure,Perhaps wedged behind a wheel.I will count the minutesAs I count thunders and strikes.I can do nothing else. For in the next thick hourIn the next thick breath,A mother may weep a son,A […]
Suits
I can smell my own pits,my night sweats,sucked up in my weekunwashed robe. I am disgusted. And yet, there,in the garment bags,lingered in your suits,your suits I brought homefrom your funeralin the sands so long far gone,remains these sameand bitter musks. And there, in the bags,the pastes of rose wallpapers,struggled up but aligned remain. And […]
On Vineyards and Vengeance
Espaliered vines hang like convicts, strung out in the vineyards as portent to passers by. But the tasting rooms are open with cheeses, retribution and grim justice – verdicts of wine. I see them, the tasters, the gawkers, giddy on the road for sips of vengeance and sublimation. I see them, glued to the glass, […]
Hard Weathers and Grime
What can I beg of tomorrow that hasn’t already been denied? Am I a cup in a hand, an avoided eye? If I yearned for a lung not shallowed with tar, would you grant it? I thought not, I’ve asked before. If I fought for one black minute to toss the shovels aside, to use […]
The Colding Breeze
The so and many ways to sing the breeze, whether it is breath or breathed, or hummed in trees unleaved, bison-heard on plains or high-crested seas, it is wind that rattles here – here upon the eaves. Church bells are not pealed, but pushed pitched rods hung from the porches of time, piped and true […]
